


The Split

by Cross_d_a



Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Domestic Avengers, Don't copy to another site, Eventual sexy times, Everyone Gets A Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Multi, Odin's A+ Parenting, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Tony is basically Team Mom, Touch-Starved, because some version of everyone deserves a chance at happiness, but immediate attraction on some people's parts, honestly this new timeline is my new favourite fucking thing ever, massive canon divergence for obvious reasons, this new timeline gets a fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18667285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cross_d_a/pseuds/Cross_d_a
Summary: Despite their best intentions, the timeline splits and a new universe is born.AKAThe Avengers fuck up a bit when they go back in time and Captain America isn't so good at returning things where they belong. But maybe it'll work out for the better in the end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't read any Endgame fic because I'm still recovering. So let me just dive into this new universe with all the fervor of someone who's desperately reaching for when times were simpler. Except now they're not because _time travel_ and time travel is the best thing _ever_.

It starts off like this:

Tony has a heart attack.

In the minutes between the heart attack and when he sees the security footage he thinks maybe it’s an aftereffect of his little jaunt in space and his most recent brush with almost-not-quite-death. It would make awful, terrifying sense and he fully plans on revisiting every single design he has for the arc reactor so he’ll be less vulnerable, less breakable, less prone to panic attacks concerning the thing that’s keeping him alive.

So it starts with the heart attack and quickly tumbles into Thor leaning over him with fear pinching his face and then that weird hammer tapping against him with an awful weight that bursts into static and energy and _wow_ that feels like the weirdest high.

Thor’s relief is so endearing Tony can forgive him for everything that’s happened between them the last couple days. Maybe he can even forgive him for having such an awful brother, but hey, it’s not like Thor really had a choice in that. Not like Tony is responsible for choosing his own bastard of a father. You don’t really have control over family.

Except.

Except then Tony realizes the case is gone.

Loki is gone.

And maybe Tony blames Thor just a bit for trusting that his brother couldn’t escape.

(he tries not to think that this is his fault. that if he hadn’t had a fucking _heart attack_ maybe Loki wouldn’t have gotten away. if only he’d been better with his tech. if only he was just _better period_ and not such a _liability_.)

Everyone is shouting and _Thor_ is shouting, desperation tightening his voice into something awful and Tony’s just trying to lever himself up, just trying to even his breathing and _fuck_ does his chest hurt. His head is pounding something fierce and everything is so loud he almost misses Rogers’ voice in his ear.

_“I’ve got eyes on Loki.”_

_That_ gives him enough of a burst of energy to push himself up, coughing, still spluttering, and raise a hand to his ear. “JARVIS,” Tony rasps. “Tell me you’ve still got some eyes in this place.”

 _“I’m attempting to reroute some of the power, sir,”_ JARVIS chimes from his earpiece. _“I do not currently know Captain Rogers’ whereabouts.”_ There’s a pause, then: _“Located. He is in the Main Atrium on the second highest skybridge. He appears to be fighting a clone of himself.”_

Tony scowls. “Gotta be Loki. He turned himself into Rogers earlier.”

 _“En route,”_ Romanov announces from the comm. _“We’re just a couple floors away.”_

“Right,” Tony says. “Good.”

 _“Loki appears to also have the scepter,”_ JARVIS helpfully chimes in.

 _“What?!”_ Tony just barely manages to stop from screeching. “How the _fuck—_ Okay, you know what. Sure. Sure. Fucking _magic._ ”

 _Fuck_. Where’s his armour when he needs it? Mark VII is too damaged and Mark VIII is only half finished. He’s fucking _useless._

Hulk is now bellowing along with Thor, having just realized that Loki is gone. The fury on his green face is a bit too understandable. The agents clustered around don’t even pay him any attention. Pierce barks orders and half of them scamper away, guns held aloft and _hey._ There’s an idea.

It takes far too much energy, but he manages to stumble to his feet, only having to steady himself a couple of times. No one dares tell him to sit back down which he is perfectly fine with. They’re too occupied by figuring out where the fuck Loki is. Tony feels a bit bad about not letting them in on the info that Loki is just a few floors up fighting America’s True and Tried Hero. But considering Pierce is one of the guys behind ordering New York to be fucking _Nuked,_ Tony doesn’t feel that awful. He’s never liked Pierce anyway.

He’s just thankful the Avengers have a closed-channel comm.

When he leaves the throng of harried agents, he manages to lift a gun without anyone noticing. Thor’s halfway down the hall, but Tony makes it to him before the big guy can make it any farther. With a careful, still slightly shaky hand, Tony touches Thor on the elbow. The man turns and _jeeze_ he’s nearly in tears. Tony can’t take this right now.

Instead, Tony jerks his head towards the stairs and murmurs, “Come one. Cap’s with Loki. Let’s give him some back-up, huh?”

The reaction is immediate: Thor goes boneless beneath his hand, then tenses, so tightly wound his muscles are steel beneath Tony’s fingertips. The expression upon his handsome face melts into relief, then twists into grief and determination.

Tony knows exactly how Thor feels right now. Maybe one day when it doesn’t hurt so much, Tony will tell him about Stane. Except that will probably be never ever ever. Pep keeps telling him to go to a therapist but he’s got his father’s voice in his ear telling him _“those quacks are for the weak”_ and _fuck_ he probably _does_ need to go to a therapist.

This is such a shitty day.

“Come on, I’ll show you the way,” Tony murmurs, desperate to get out of here before any of the agents realize they’re splitting. He glances over at the Hulk who’s bellowing his heart out, and for one awful, guilty moment he thinks about leaving him. The Hulk complicates things. He’s intelligent but stubborn, and if Tony tries to bring him along, too, who knows what might happen.

Except, Tony may be a shitty person but he’s not _that_ shitty. He owes Hulk. A _lot._ And he likes Banner. He’s always been too quick to latch onto things and this is some dangerous attachment he’s feeling right now.

Tony can’t just leave the poor guy here all alone. And who knows what the fuck Pierce’s men will do if they get their hands on him.

So Tony does the only thing he can do: he limps over to the Hulk, Thor trailing just behind him.

“Hey, buddy,” Tony says as he comes within arm’s reach. “Big guy, we gotta go.”

The Hulk swings around, frustration making his eyes seem a bit mad. He huffs, fists clenching. Before he can dismiss Tony as an afterthought and before Tony can even _think_ about what he’s doing, he reaches out and touches Hulk on the wrist.

The effect is even more immediate than when Tony told Thor about Loki: The Hulk goes completely and utterly still. So still Tony is kinda worried because it doesn’t look like the guy is breathing. The Hulk stares down at him with wide eyes that trail down to where Tony’s now steady fingers touch the bone of Hulk’s wrist.

His skin is surprisingly soft.

“We need you,” Tony says, “and I don’t want to leave you here with those assholes.” He jerks a thumb at the agents behind them. They haven’t got long before someone notices.

For the next few agonizingly long seconds Hulk’s stare doesn’t move from where they touch. Then his gaze returns to Tony’s face, and the fragile wonder in his eyes makes Tony supremely uncomfortable. He wonders if maybe no one’s ever touched the Hulk like this. Not out of anger or fear. The kind of rage that sweeps through him in that moment is the kind of fury that has him blasting off over the Atlantic and blowing up evil men. It’s the kind of incessant rage that steals the breath form his lungs and lights his veins ablaze.

He takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe through it. The carefully pack it up for later when there are fewer things at stake.

When he opens his eyes again, the Hulk is nodding. “Okay, Tin Man,” the Hulk rumbles.

Tony grins. “Good man.” He pats the Hulk’s hand then turns away back to the stairs. “Let’s get going.”

When they reach the entrance, it takes another few seconds to convince Hulk to follow them.

The Hulk scowls, annoyance lighting up his eyes. “Hulk don’t like stairs.” He turns that irritated gaze on Tony. “Hulk _hate_ stairs.”

Tony winces and reaches out again to lay a soothing hand on Hulk’s wrist. “Sorry, big guy. I’m really sorry. We’ll do some renovations so you can always fit in the elevators, okay? I shouldn’t have made you climb all the way down, especially when you’re probably really tired. But this time we gotta go. This’ll lead us straight to where we wanna go and if we go to the elevator those dicks are gonna accost us.”

The Hulk narrows his gaze then throws a scowl at Pierce’s men. “Promise,” he rumbles.

“Pinky swear. I’ll even buy us all some lunch afterwards.” Tony even holds up a pinky which Hulk delicately takes with a baffled expression. “All right, let’s go, let’s go. Cap hasn’t answered for a couple minutes.”

It doesn’t take long to get to Steve, but by then it’s already too late. They find Romanov kneeling over his limp body. Shattered glass covers the floor and Tony tries not to think of Rogers falling hundreds of feet to his death. The scepter’s case lays right next to him. Heart in his throat, Tony limps over as quickly as he can.

“Is he—?”

Romanov’s grin is tight, but a welcome sight. “Not even a broken bone. The lucky bastard.”

Tony can’t help the bark of laughter that bursts from his between his lips. “Jesus Christ. He’s probably gonna be all bruises later, though.” He drops down to his knees and brushes careful fingers over an already darkening cheekbone. “Any idea where Loki is? JARVIS?”

_“Still analyzing.”_

Tony frowns. That’s unusual and certainly doesn’t bode well.

“Barton’s scouting the area,” Romanov says. “Loki was gone by the time we got here. And with the Tesseract…”

“Who knows where Loki has gone now,” Thor finishes, grief welling in his voice once more. “My brother is known to flee and tend to his wounds in private. With the Tesseract, it will be nearly impossible to track him.”

“But possible,” Tony butts in, mind whirling.

Thor’s nod is grave. “And extremely difficult. My brother is cunning and far too versed in the art of hiding.”

“Well, luckily I’m pretty good at finding things. And we found him before, right? We can do it again.”

Thor just shakes his head. “Were it that simple. The Tesseract can transport my brother wherever he pleases. He could be anywhere in the universe.”

Hulk growls menacingly, teeth audibly grinding. Rogers continues to lie there completely unaware and far too pretty. When they aren’t biting each other’s heads off it’s really _really_ difficult to ignore.

“And the scepter is only going to make it easier for him,” Tony mutters bitterly. “How the fuck did he even get it anyway? What happened to the STRIKE team? They had _one job_.”

“That might not be a problem.”

Tony frowns and looks over to where Romanov’s moved to Rogers’ other side and opened the case.

The scepter lays there just as innocently as their resident super soldier, gem glimmering almost pleasantly.

“What?” Tony blurts. “What— that’s got to be a fake. There’s- there’s no _way_ he just _left_ it.”

Thor kneels down beside Romanov, hand hovering just over the deadly edge. “No,” he says slowly, confusion pinching his brows. “It is real. This is the scepter responsible for the extent of Loki’s destruction.”

“But why would he leave it?” Romanov questions. The uncertainly upon her face unsettles Tony.

 _“I don’t see him,”_ Barton interrupts, voice sharp and pained. _“He’s not fucking anywhere.”_

Tony stares down at Rogers’ pretty, bruised face and tries not to throw up and make even more of a fool of himself. What is even going on? Is this some kind of trick? Is there something else going on here?

 _“Sir,”_ JARVIS interrupts. _“I believe I may have found something of interest.”_

A few minutes later finds them all huddled in front of the nearest office computer they’ve decided to commandeer. All of them except Rogers, that is. He’s slumped over Hulk’s shoulder and they should _really_ think about getting him to a medic, but Tony figures that super soldier serum has to be good for _something_ other than making the man’s ass fine as hell.

 _“What the hell,”_ Clint mutters as he hunches over Tony’s shoulder, staring at the security footage JARVIS is streaming for them. _“_ What the _fuck.”_

On the flickering screen two Captain Americas fight on a skybridge. They fall. Fight some more. Then one of them presses the tip of the scepter into the other’s chest and escapes after the man falls. Just as he disappears through the doorway he reappears from the opposite end of the Atrium. He’s carrying two cases and wears a darker combat suit. He pauses next to Rogers’ unconscious body, considers him for a moment, then shakes his head before setting down the scepter’s case. A second later he’s pressing something on the back of his hand and he disappears in a confusing whirl of light.

“That wasn’t the Tesseract,” Thor says, words slightly stilted with shock.

“No,” Barton bites out. “It wasn’t.”

“He also didn’t kill him.” Romanov sounds more thoughtful than anything else.

 _“There is a second video, sir,”_ JARVIS says almost hesitantly.

Tony’s stomach drops.

JARVIS is rarely hesitant.

“Play it, J,” Tony rasps.

And then he’s looking at the hallway where they lost Loki in the first place. He watches as he falters and falls. Watches as the briefcase clatters to the ground and, when everyone’s attention is on him trying not to eject his heart right out from his chest, it flings itself across the floor where it’s picked up by someone in tactical gear. Loki just seems to watch with perplexed interest.

“JARVIS,” Tony immediately starts.

_“There’s more, sir.”_

Tony doesn’t like JARVIS’ tone. He really _really_ doesn’t like it. He likes it even less when the Hulk bursts out the stairwell door, slamming into whoever just stole the Tesseract. The glowing cube goes flying and Loki only takes a second to decide it’s in his best interest to pick it up and then he’s gone.

But Tony doesn’t even watch that part.

No, his gaze is firmly fixed on the man laying spread-eagled across the floor, goggles laying so innocuously beside him.

Like it doesn’t even matter that Tony is staring into his own face.

“I don’t think that’s Loki,” Romanov says measured and slow.

“No,” Tony mutters, voice distant, like he’s hearing himself from the other side of a very, very long tunnel. “No. It’s not.”

Then he leans over, and promptly loses the battle with his roiling stomach.

All over Romanov’s boots, no less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure Steve isn’t just gonna give them back the raw stone. He’s gotta have a replica of the staff in order to do this properly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really read this over for mistakes. Just wanted to get it out. So apologies for any typos. I'll probably go over it later when I'm less tired.

“Okay,” Rogers says nice and slow, into the relative silence of the room. Tony jerks from where he’s slumped over in a chair next to Rogers’ bed. “Please don’t tell me I lost another seventy years.” There’s something in the quality of his voice that’s equally playful and heartbreaking.

Tony stares, mind uncomprehending as Rogers blinks open those pretty blue eyes of his, pale eyelashes fluttering over the bruises blossoming along his cheek and _wow_ maybe Tony needs some sleep. Like. Now. Before he says something inadvisable aloud. No use in getting Rogers to hate him even more. Except wait no. He looks down at the Starkpad in his hands. He doesn’t have time for sleep. None of them do.

“Nah, sorry pal,” Barton garbles from around a disgusting mouthful of shawarma. He lounges along the windowsill, contorting his body so he can fit his feet up _and_ have a good vantage point of both the courtyard and the rest of the room. He’s got his bow cradled in his lap. The fading light of the sun flickers bloody along his temple, the shadows bruised beneath his eyes far too painful looking. Tony wonders if Barton has even slept since Loki first showed up. “Still good ol’ 2012.”

“Ah, well,” Rogers murmurs. “Guess I’ll have to wait a bit longer for those flying cars, then.”

Barton snorts. “You’d be surprised.”

Tony frowns but doesn’t have the energy to pursue that worrying comment. “Glad you’re back with us, Cap,” he says instead, unable to hide his exhaustion. “The scepter sure knocked you right out.”

“We were worried maybe it did a bit more than that,” Barton cuts in, voice brittle.

Rogers hums for a second, eyes distant, then all of a sudden he’s flinging himself upright in a flurry of blankets and tangled IVs, machines wailing in his wake.

_“WOAH, hey!”_ Tony shouts, flailing backwards.

_“Where is he?!”_ Steve demands, eyes wild. “He was- he had the scepter—! He was- he—”

The door _clicks_ open and Romanov slips in. She pauses in the doorway and surveys them all. Then she sticks her head back out into the hall to murmur something to whoever’s on the other side before pulling back in and shutting the door quietly behind her. “Good morning, sleeping beauty. Hope you weren’t kissed back awake.” She side-eyes Tony with a teasing quirk of her lips that leaves Tony blinking and baffled.

Steve just shakes his head as he clumsily tries to scramble out of bed, scrabbling at the IVs stuck into his forearms. “We can’t let him—”

“Hey, _no_ ,” Tony snaps and makes the very poor decision to put his hands on Rogers in an attempt to push the man back into bed. This is a bad idea for several reasons: One, Rogers is all fucking _muscle_. He doesn’t even budge. Two, Rogers is _all fucking muscle._ He feels so nice under Tony’s hands that he immediately wants to breakdown. Into hysterics possibly. Into a thousand bits of embarrassment, most definitely. Maybe even call Pepper to grovel a bit and apologize for thinking about this ridiculous hunk of a man. Except he’s pretty sure she’d be genuinely charmed by the blast from the past and not even threatened at all.

Also three, Rogers just stops and stares at Tony like he’s never even seen him before.

“Uhh,” Tony says eloquently. But his hands keep pushing and after a few seconds Rogers slowly lowers himself back onto the bed. He’s still staring so Tony lets go as soon as Rogers’ fine ass is back on the hospital bed and raises his hands in defense. “Don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Tony says dumbly. “Those IVs hurt when they’re tugged out without professional help. I should know. Plus you’re probably super sore. So, like. Bed. Yes.”

Rogers stares.

Tony shuts up.

Romanov grins at them like they’re there for her own personal amusement. “Tony’s right. You should take it a bit easy, Rogers. Your eyes don’t indicate any external influence, but we don’t want to take any chances. There’s a guard outside your door until you’re well enough to leave.

“I’m fine,” Rogers mutters stubbornly, jaw set. He looks down into his lap, fingers curling delicately where Tony touched him. Like Tony left him bruised or branded or dirty and Tony really needs to learn to keep his hands to himself. He’s all too familiar with unwanted touch. He should know better. He should _do_ better.

The thought sits heavy and ugly in Tony’s stomach. Awful enough that he thinks maybe he’ll throw up again, except he doesn’t actually have anything in his stomach to throw up but water. He’d refused to touch the shawarma he’d ordered the rest of the team, but he’d been unable to stop Romanov from pressing a cool glass into his hand. He’d sipped the water under her watchful eye until she’d nodded in satisfaction.

Queasy and fainter than he’d like he admit, Tony ducks down to retrieve the tablet he’d dropped on the floor. He steadies himself on the bedside table and carefully lowers himself back into his chair. The screen isn’t cracked, but he didn’t really expect it to be, anyway. His tech is better than anyone else’s. When he glances back up, both Romanov and Rogers are eyeing him, unfamiliar emotion in their eyes. Cringing, Tony fidgets and absorbs himself with his tablet once more. Pulling up the videos he’s managed to scavenge from the wreck of their systems. It’s a miracle they even have this much.

“Where’s Loki?” Rogers asks after a moment of silence. He’s calmer this time, but his tone is resigned and tight.

“Gone,” Romanov says simply.

“He fucked right out of here with the Tesseract,” Barton scowls and chomps into his last bite of shawarma.

Rogers sucks in a deep breath. “The scepter?”

“Still here,” Romanov reassures.

“What?”

Tony peaks up from his tablet, barely managing to tear his eyes from the right corner of his screen where there’s an enhanced still of himself. He’d really, truly think it was himself if not for the obvious crow’s feet in the corners of the eyes. The deep lines creased along the edges of the mouth. The peppering of grey hair.

That awful look in his eyes.

“It’s back in SHIELD’s hands. I explained to Fury and STRIKE that you defended it from Loki.” Romanov pauses. “But we don’t think it was Loki you met. At least, not on the bridge with the scepter.” She approaches the bed but doesn’t sit down, content to cross her arms and lean her weight onto one leg. She’s still wearing that ridiculous catsuit. Tony sincerely hopes it’s made of reinforced fabric, if not he’s going to be having some serious words with SHIELD’s R&D, and then he’s going to design her a new one himself. Her _and_ Barton. And Brucie, who really just needs some Hulk-friendly clothing in general.

Rogers frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Either we’ve got a serious case of some cloning, or something even worse,” Barton says, voice low. At least _he’s_ in some different clothing, even if it’s a startling shade of purple. But that might be because Romanov marched him into a private SHIELD medic room and didn’t let him leave until he was all stitched and bandaged up. He has no doubt she rescued her partner’s tattered uniform for some serious fixing. Barton doesn’t need to be spending any more time in those clothes.

To tell the truth they’re all a bit smelly. Even Romanov.

The way Rogers is looking at Tony right now makes him think maybe he might have said some of that out loud. Rogers’ face is twisted is bemused concern. Then he blinks, arm jerking like maybe- but no. Rogers shakes his head a bit as if clearing his thoughts, and then he focuses on Barton, frown deepening. “Are you joking?” There’s a bite to his voice, an almost desperate edge that Tony wishes he could reassure.

“I wish we weren’t,” Romanov sighs.

“I’ve found some more,” Tony pipes in. Lifting the tablet, he waggles it a bit. “More security footage, that is. A lot of our systems got short circuited from the Tesseract surge or damaged from the battle, but it’s enough. JARVIS managed to help me piece some things together.”

Reaching out blindly for his half empty water glass, Tony sighs. He could really use some alcohol about now. He takes a moment to drain the glass, then scooches his chair a few inches closer and slips the tablet into Rogers’ lap. “You’re not the only one with a mysterious doppelganger.”

“Have you told SHIELD about this?” Rogers asks, a hard look on his face.

Tony pauses. “No.” He considers the other man for a moment. “Not yet, at least.”

The man eyes him silently, before accepting it with a curt nod.

Leaning into Rogers’ space to start the videos is kind of awful. The man radiates warmth like a goddamn furnace and it makes Tony’s heart pick up the pace even though he’s fucking _exhausted_ and his heart has had enough trauma for today. Pep really won’t mind him being attracted to someone else, as long as he doesn’t act on it, but he still feels guilty all the same.

Fuck, it’s got to be the long last couple of days getting to him. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept. He certainly didn’t the night before the Helicarrier when he reviewed all those files and researched Gamma radiation. And he didn’t the night before that because he was feverishly finishing up the last touches to the Tower.

_Merda,_ his poor fucking Tower.

Pep is going to be so mad.

Fuck, he needs sleep. Hopefully Rogers won’t mind if he just passes out right here later on. He’s not sure his Tower is quite up to house residents at the moment and he _seriously_ doubts he’ll be able to score a hotel right now. And even if he did, he’d be laden down with some pretty serious guilt. He doesn’t even wanna think about the number of newly homeless people out there right now.

Actually. Why didn’t he think of this before?

He quickly hits play and lets Rogers watch the two videos the rest of them have already seen. Guilt already eating away at his lungs, he pulls his phone out and wobbles ungracefully up from his chair. He stairs down at the screen. He’s been ignoring the inevitable. But there are more important things right now than his inability to deal with emotions.

There are 27 missed calls from Pepper, and then about a million more that he could care less about. Except those other 14 from Rhodey.

He really _is_ fucked.

Before he can really think about it, he’s putting the phone up to his ear and it’s already ringing. She picks up almost immediately.

Of course.

_“I missed your call,”_ she sobs.

Tears immediately prickle behind his eyes and Tony can’t do this. He can’t. He can’t he can’t he—

He can’t let her continue sobbing into his ear. She deserves better. So he turns on his heel to face the window. Barton eyes him, then nods, a weird kind of understanding on his face. The man hops off the window sill, clutching his bow to his chest, and makes his way over to where Rogers and Romanov are huddled around the tablet. Tony takes the archer’s place, huddling up next to the window to give himself some semblance of privacy.

“I’m needy anyway,” he manages to joke into the phone, even if it’s not really a joke. “I understand if you wanna miss a call or two. I’m told I’m very talkative. Too talkative even. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to strangle me by now.”

_“God damnit, Tony.”_ Pep’s breath shudders. _“We’ve talked about this. We- we aren’t going to downplay your insecurities right now. You don’t get to joke about them. Not- not like this.”_

Suddenly, Tony is far more exhausted than he’s ever felt in his life. And he’s been held captive and tortured for three months. Plus, he’s pretty sure he was dead for a few minutes there just a couple hours ago.

“Pep,” he sighs. There’s a pounding building behind his left eye and a sharp pain lances just beneath his ear.

_“I missed your call,”_ she repeats more faintly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

_“I thought you died.”_

“Me, too.”

There’s a moment of quiet only broken by her hitched breathing and intermittent sniffles.

He hates that he does this to her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, throat thick. “I’m so sorry.”

_“I love you.”_

Relief spreads cool through his veins, affection calming his erratically beating heart. “I love you, too.”

She sniffles again, and then clears her throat. _“They aren’t letting any planes land in New York. Just military and relief. I’m stuck in DC until they clear the roads, too.”_

“You’ve got Happy with you?”

_“Yes.”_

“Good.”

He takes a moment to breathe. He’s so fucking thankful she wasn’t here for this. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost her. _Merda,_ if he lost her…

“Actually,” Tony starts, forcing himself away from that train of thought, “I was hoping you’d help me with something.”

_“What do you need?”_ Immediately she’s that combination of wary and professionalism that he adores.

“It’s pretty shit here, Pep,” Tony confesses. “New York is a mess right now. I’m sure you’ve been watching the news. There’s a lot of—” He chokes off, swallows, tries again without visions of a nuclear blast filling the sky and wiping Manhattan to the ground. “There’s a lot of dead people, Pep, and even more injured. The number of homes and businesses that must have been lost…Not to mention the already homeless. God, even the _wildlife._ We’ve got to do something. There’s way too much alien tech littering the streets, and who knows what contaminants all the bodies carry. We’ve got to help before there’s even more chaos, Pep.”

_“Of course.”_

Fuck, he loves her.

“There’s some people here I can talk to, but there are some other things I need to take care of, Pep.”

_“Don’t worry, Tony,”_ she says, all the tears gone from her voice. _“I’ve got a few ideas.”_

“Mrs. Hoag in Damage Control—”

_“I think I’ve got some, ideas, Tony,”_ she repeats. _“Let me take care of it, okay? It’ll be good to have something else to focus on, anyway. Until I can see you again.”_

“Yeah,” he croaks. Then, before he can help himself, “What would I do without you, Miss Potts?”

_“Well, Mr. Stark”_ she says, tears clogging her voice once more, _“you’d be dead for one.”_

“Yeah,” he laughs, except it feels more like choking. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

_“I’ll call you later tonight?”_

“Sure,” he rushes. “Of course. Yeah. I’d love that.”

_“I love you,”_ she says.

“I love you, too.”

After he hangs up, he curls into himself and stares out the window. The sun is at just the right angle to split across the rooftops of SHIELD’s New York HQ and blind him. He closes his eyes and soaks in the warmth. Lets the cold vacuum of space bleed away from his aching body. The arc reactor thrums between his ribs, pressing into his damaged lungs. The metal is still so cold beneath his fingertips.

“—ark? Mr. Stark?”

Flinching, Tony jerks his head to face the rest of the room. His fingers cramp, trembling just the slightest. Thor and Bruce have rejoined them at some point. Bruce has thankfully found some sweatpants and a hoodie. Hilariously, Thor seems to have been given jeans and a leather jacket. He looks unfairly good for a god with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and Mjölnir propped on his hip.

“You alright?”

Tony focuses on Rogers. There’s a strange look upon the man’s face, something uncomfortably akin to sympathy. The man’s gaze flickers down to Tony’s chest, so Tony follows his line of sight and—

Oh.

He forces himself to stop taptaptapping his fingers against his arc reactor. It’s even harder to unclench them from his phone. Pointedly, he slips it into his pocket and ignores Rogers’ contemplative look.

“I’m always alright,” Tony says flippantly. He rises to his feet and very, _very_ carefully does not immediately sink to his weak knees. His legs feel like jelly, but it’s not time to rest yet. He doubts there will ever be a time when he can truly rest.

He’s always got work to do.

“You watch the videos?”

Rogers nods.

“There’s more.”

Rogers’ face twists and Bruce groans.

So Tony settles in his chair once more and grimaces when Rogers offers the tablet.

“I’ve- got a thing.” Tony waves his hand vaguely.

Rogers stares at him, clearly affronted.

_Mio Dio,_ his _mammina_ would be so ashamed of him.

“Can you- uh. Just put it down?” Tony points to Rogers’ lap, then remembers belatedly, “Please.”

Slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal, Rogers lowers the tablet onto his own lap and carefully pulls his hands away.

Antsy, practically twitching in his seat, Tony reaches out and gingerly snatches back the Starkpad. “Thanks,” he mutters awkwardly, feeling like thousands of bugs are crawling just beneath his skin. With just a few swipes he manages to pull up the other bits of security footage he and JARVIS have pieced together. He glances at the group and then at the window.

“Actually, Barton. Mind closing the curtains?”

Barton raises a brow, but obligingly relinquishes his seat at the foot of the bed. “Sure, Stark.”

While he does that, Bruce moves in closer, frowning. “How do we know they aren’t monitoring the room?”

“Oh, they are,” Barton calls from the window as he yanks at the curtains, cutting off the fading light. “Or, they _were._ Until Stark messed with their network.”

But at that Bruce’s frown only deepens. He casts a nervous glance at Romanov. “How do we know you aren’t just going to report back to them anyway?”

Romanov’s answering smile is more like a jagged cut across her face, bloody and cold and more than a bit terrifying. “Considering we have no idea what we’re dealing with, I think it’s safe to say Barton and I both agree we aren’t going to go crying to anyone. At the moment it’s bets if we keep this between us.” She pauses, expression shuttering into a wooden mask. It’s like she’s deliberately not saying anything more.

Tony almost wants to ask if whatever she’s not saying begins with Agent and ends with Loki and decides he definitely doesn’t want to explore that path. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Thor seems to understand, though. The god moves to stand by Romanov’s side and places a comforting hand upon her shoulder. She stiffens almost imperceptibly, and Tony thinks he’s only able to see it because she’s too tired to hide it better. But then the woman slumps just the tiniest bit and lifts a delicate hand to pat Thor’s. The man smiles down at her, all tragic an empathetic and withdraws his hand but stays standing right beside her, as if he thinks his mere presence may help.

Considering the way Barton slinks back and presses himself into Romanov’s other side, maybe she does need some companionship right now. Maybe they all do. And maybe they trust each other just enough to allow it.

“So we traced back Fake-Rogers’ steps and it led back to the service elevator the STRIKE team used,” Tony begins. He flicks at the tablet and projects the video into the air between them. It’s a backwards timelapse of the Fake-Rogers encountering the real Rogers back to when he steps out of the elevator with the scepter’s case, STRIKE team staring after him, a strange smirk upon his face. The video is a bit choppy because some of the cameras that would have captured the complete path were damaged, but they’ve got a pretty good portion of Fake-Rogers making his way through the building as if he knows it like the back of his hand.

“Do we have any visual of what happened inside the elevator?” Rogers immediately demands.

“No,” Tony grits out, irritated that they don’t. “Something interfered with it. I don’t know whether it was damage from the battle or what, but I’ve got _nothing_ from the minute that Fake-Rogers is in there with the STRIKE team. Zip. Nada. _Niente._ Absolutely fucking nothing.”

There’s a quiet pause.

“If it was Loki,” Thor offers, “the interference could be from magic. He could also influence them into giving him the scepter if they believed him to be the Captain.”

But Bruce is already shaking his head. “I know you’ve said that your brother can create doppelgangers, but he seemed genuinely surprised when Fake-Tony tried to steal it. Plus, I can’t imagine him just leaving the scepter if he went to all the trouble to get it back.”

“He also hasn’t bothered trying to hide himself from surveillance before,” Romanov points out. “I know he’s the God of Mischief, but in the past he’s seemed to _like_ us knowing he was pulling the wool over our eyes. He _wants_ us to know he’s one step ahead of us. This just doesn’t seem like him. It doesn’t add up.”

Thor’s already nodding. “I would agree.”

“Then what are we dealing with here?” Barton sounds wearier than he probably meant. “You said he’s only in the elevator for a minute. A _minute._ He knew what he was looking for and exactly where to find it. It’s no coincidence. This was _planned._ Somehow, he knew the STRIKE team was going to be ferrying the scepter from the tower and struck when they were most isolated and vulnerable. And he didn’t even give off any red flags.”

Romanov nods along. “They didn’t seem to happy that I was the one with the scepter, but they accepted it. They weren’t suspicious of Rogers at all.”

Rogers shakes his head. “He knew _exactly_ where to find the STRIKE team. Do you have footage of him getting onto the elevator? Into the building?”

“Yep,” Tony says, obnoxiously popping the p. With a few more flicks of his fingers he’s got the next video.

Fake-Rogers slinks into the building through a service entrance and navigates his way up the stairs like it’s nothing. Once more he acts like he knows the building like the back of his hand. It’s unnerving. This heist can’t have been pre-planned. There’s no way. And yet there’s a set of unknown people who know how to get around his defenses like he’s some child who just built a sloppy sandcastle.

He hates it hates it _hates it._

Near the end of the video, Fake-Rogers pauses in front of the service elevator’s entrance on the 76th floor. He presses the down button and twists around to peer down the hallway, lips moving.

“Hey, wait.”

Tony pauses the video and glances at Barton who’s squinting at the projection.

“Play it back?”

He dutifully does so and watches as Barton avidly watches.

“On it,” Barton murmurs. Then, “Head to the lobby.”

Tony blinks. “That’s a useful skill.”

Barton darts a glance at him, then his lips tilt and he taps at one ear. “Deaf.”

Tony blinks again, suddenly caught off kilter. He squints at the comm lodge in Barton’s ear which, he supposes, must also act as a hearing aid during missions. He’d wondered why the man had one in each ear and had stupidly assumed... He wasn’t quite sure what he’d assumed. “Oh.”

Awkward, Barton shrugs a shoulder. “It wouldn’t have said in my file.” Then he’s squinting like he’s trying not to cry. “Not- not in the one he gave you.”

Ah.

Tony just nods, and politely ignores how Romanov curls an arm around her friend. Barton leans into it like he doesn’t quite have the strength to hold himself up.

None of them have really had any time to grieve.

“So they _knew_ ,” Rogers mercifully says, bringing them back on track. “And it _was_ a _them._ It’s more than one person working together, not just a- a magic doppelganger that’s controlled by one mind.” He shoots an uncertain glance at Thor who nods in agreement.

“They shouldn’t have known, though.”

They all look at Romanov who’s studying the video with keen eyes. “No one could have predicted any of this. No one could have known how the events would play out. Either this mission was spontaneous and carried out by an outside group of people who somehow have knowledge and abilities that surpass our own…” Her face tightens. “Or we’ve got a leak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...!! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I did not do any heavy editing so my apologies.

“That’s…Nat,” Barton rasps, voice wrecked.

“It’s a serious possibility, Clint, and you know it,” she says not unkindly. Except it doesn’t look like she’s taking this any better than him, awful acceptance splintered through her wooden expression. Like she’s trying so hard to keep it together. Like she’s been through this time and time again and she should be used to it by now but she’s not.

Barton shakes his head, taking an unsteady step away from her, the shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced than ever. “No. Phil- he would’ve— He wouldn’t have let it happen. He’d have _known—_ ”

Romanov crosses her arms, but it looks more like she’s hugging herself. Trying to hold herself together. Tony’s not sure he’s ever seen her as vulnerable as she is now. It’s unnerving. He kind of wants to hug her, except he’s pretty sure he’d get stabbed in the eye.

“Phil wasn’t infallible, Clint,” Romanov says softly. “He was a good man, but he wasn’t perfect. He couldn’t know everything that was happening in SHIELD. And he’s gone now. There’s- there’s nothing he could have done.”

Barton’s face twists, eyes worryingly glinting.

“Hey,” Romanov says, reaching out to gently touch his elbow. “We’ve dealt with leaks before. They’re rare, but they aren’t unheard of.”

Screwing his eyes shut, Barton shakes his head, flinching into himself. “I know,” he rasps. “I just…”

“I know,” Romanov murmurs. “I know.”

Silently, Rogers scoots a little closer to Tony so there’s more space on the bed. Barton doesn’t protest when Romanov pushes him down into the pillows, mindless of his dirty boots. They smear bits of gravel and soot across the clean sheets. It’s almost funny. Barton’s wearing a whole new set of clothes and yet he kept his boots.

Rogers presses his shoulder into Barton, a steady, comforting contact, but doesn’t try to touch any more than that. Romanov, too, keeps a hand on Barton’s other shoulder. It’s not like Barton immediately relaxes. The bruises pooling beneath his skin muddle his complexion, dark and painful looking. His eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. He’s still stiff and brittle, as if any wrong movement will shatter him apart.  But the tension eases just the slightest.

Tony doesn’t say anything as he watches Barton curl around his bow, clutching it close to his chest like it’ll keep him safe even off the battlefield.

It takes a second to register the feeling of cool metal against Tony’s fingertips and when he looks down he realizes his fingers are tapping at the arc reactor once more. Swallowing, he forces his hand down again.

Well, he guesses he doesn’t blame Barton. Maybe Tony even understands him a bit more than he likes.

“A leak,” Rogers says into the awkward silence. “Sounds possible.” The man grimaces, like the words leave an acrid taste in his mouth. “More than possible, actually.”

Barton nods, tight and sharp.

Tony’s gaze shifts down to the tablet again, fingers running over the edge with nervous energy. There’s more to show them, but… “I’d like to think my tower has top of the line security, except Fury also waltzed right into my home once and took JARVIS out without any alarm _at all._ So. I don’t wanna think about what _else_ SHIELD has up their sleeves.” Tony exchanges a glance with Romanov. “Definitely wouldn’t surprise me if they have tech that can clone our faces.”

Romanov is silent for a second, before she tilts her head. “It might. Still developing, of course.”

The roll of Tony’s eyes is automatic. “Of course, it is.”

“Would explain the apparent aging.” So cleanly does she ignore his comment that Tony’s impressed.

“What do you mean?” Bruce frowns.

Gesturing at the frozen image still suspended in the air, Romanov says, “The fake Rogers and Stark. They look older. It’s harder to tell with the Rogers double, but he’d a bit gaunter. You can see the deeper lines around his mouth and there’s a faint wrinkle in his forehead.” Her fingers flick when her eyes do and Tony obligingly brings up an image of his own double in the lobby.

She traces the deep lines creasing the double’s eyes, the grey in his hair.

Tony has to look away.

“Stark’s double definitely shows more signs of aging. It could be because the technology isn’t refined. Maybe some characteristics of the wearer show through. It’s possible whoever is wearing Stark’s face is older than whoever is posing as Rogers.”

“It would make sense,” Thor offers slowly. He studies Tony’s double carefully, maybe hoping to find some clue that none of them else see. “Nothing is infallible.” He glances at Barton apologetically before continuing. “Any spell has its weakness, any stance its blind spot. My brother could cast an illusion to appear as anyone he pleased,” he grimaces, “as you witnessed earlier.”

Thor steps closer to the projected image, leaning in, hair spilling over his shoulders. “However, if you looked closely enough…” He lifts a finger and gently touches the corner of Tony’s double’s eye. “You could always spot his tell.”

Studying the image, Thor falls silent. Then, he leans back and flashes them all a grin. “Perhaps this is their tell.”

Tony swallows. The clicking of his throat is audible in the room. “There’s- uhm. Well.” As everyone turns to look at him, he fidgets, ducking his head to stare at the tablet. Fingers tapping incessantly along the rim, he swallows again, desperately trying to get rid of the sick anxiety roiling in his stomach. He’s worried he might throw up again. Might start shaking and gasping like he did an hour ago when he first saw it. He’d been in the bathroom, splashing water on his face, when JARVIS had chimed in his ear that there was something he needed to see. Immediately.

And so Tony had watched it.

Over and over and over again.

He still doesn’t understand.

But…maybe they can help.

It’s a terrifying thought.

This whole last hour he’s debated on whether to even show them this footage or not. It’s crazy and it makes him _vulnerable_ and he _hates_ it. And who knows who he can trust, really? With everything he’s been through, with the shit that just got pulled today. The only people he’s ever been able to truly trust are Rhodey and Pepper and Happy (and Jarvis and Ana but it’s still hurts to think about them) and even then it took a fucking long time to reach that point. Even then, he still finds it difficult to admit his weaknesses to them. Still finds it hard say what he means and how he feels instead if glossing over them like their smiles are all that matter.

But Tony is tired. And he’s hurting. And fuck, yeah, he _is_ vulnerable and he wants to _fix_ it and some tremulous part of him really, _really_ wants to trust these people. No matter how weird and fucked up they all are. He thinks maybe…they’re all fucked up enough that they can understand each other.

He wants them to all be in this together.

He hopes they’re all in it together.

He’s not sure they can do this, otherwise. He needs them. And, he hopes, they need him.

It’s such an awful hope.

Maybe if this whole shitshow hadn’t happened he wouldn’t want it so badly. Certainly, if Loki hadn’t escaped and their freaky doppelgangers hadn’t shown up, he wouldn’t allow himself to even think about it. But it’s a bit much and so much has already been destroyed and taken from him that Tony thinks he might be weaker than he ever was.

Worse than Afghanistan.

Worse than when he was a child.

(sometimes, he thinks he’s at his weakest not when he’s alone, but when he’s surrounded by other people)

Tony swallows. Takes a deep breath. Swallows again. “As you-uh, know. There was a lot damage to the Tower.” He chokes on an awkward laugh and refuses to look up, instead flipping through the footage they’ve compiled. “When the Tesseract got hooked up to the arc reactor, there was a massive power surge that knocked a lot of JARVIS’ systems out. We’re still trying to repair all his connections. It’s a work in progress. But since Loki disappeared and our freaky doppelgangers showed up, JARVIS has been working his butt off to recover as much footage as possible.”

Pausing, Tony stares down at the tablet, fingers hovering over those little squares of information he’s not sure he can deal with.

“The penthouse,” Tony continues, slow and measured just so he can get his way through it, “was severely damaged. A lot of cameras were lost, and I do mean _a lot._ Like, at least seventy percent. And I had that place packed full.” Because he’s paranoid as fuck and maybe he wants JARVIS to have as much ground as possible.

Again, he pauses. Selects the clips JARVIS stitched together. It’s even choppier than the Fake-Rogers ones, but… “JARVIS, sweet, wonderful, _amazing_ JARVIS has managed to scrounge up some crucial footage that…really raises more questions than answers them.”

Once more, he pauses. _Cazzo—_ he hates this. Finger hovering over the play button, he chews his lip, breath just the tiniest bit shallow. He’s avoided thinking about it over the last hour. Tried finding more footage to help make this all just- make sense. It helps that he’s fucking _tired_ so it’s kind of hard to concentrate on anything properly. Like, he’s actually _past_ the point of exhaustion because when he’s exhausted he practically _lives_ off it. It pinpoints his mind into a laser focus that makes the ideas spin and twist and evolve and _this?_ This isn’t exhaustion. It’s just- it’s just fucking existing. And breathing. And making it from one moment to the next.

“Stark?”

Tony looks up and Rogers’ eyes are so blue and clear and startling against the impressive bruise bleeding across his cheekbone.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Tony coughs, then clears his throat awkwardly. “Yeah. Totally. Uh. Okay, uhm, so— Here we go.”

With that, he flicks his finger across the screen and lets the video play.

It’s an awkward shot, but the best angle was from a surviving camera near the end of the vestibule adjoining the lounge. You can see down the curve of the hall, a patch of the windows, the edge of the elevator entrance, a good chunk of the floor. There’s nothing for a few seconds, then— a flash of red by the windows, and a few seconds after that a man creeps down the hall, peering through the slats into the lounge. As he does so, light cuts across his face, revealing Tony’s older double, easily recognizable even at the awkward angle. You can’t even see his whole face, capturing an unnecessary view of the top of his head instead of a full straight on shot.

“When was this?” Rogers demands.

“When we were retrieving Loki,” Tony admits quietly.

“He was in the same room as us,” Romanov murmurs, voicing everyone’s thoughts, “and we didn’t even notice.”

“No,” Tony mutters, still shaken, still wanting to vomit at the thought of- of _everyone_ invading one of the few safe spaces he has. “No, we didn’t.”

The double stays there for a minute, observing. The camera’s staticky a couple of times, but JARVIS heightened the resolution enough that you can see the movement of his lips. There’s a pause, then the double mutters something quick. A longer pause, and he’s jerking to look at the elevator. By the time the STRIKE team appears he’s scarpered off around the corner, nearer the windows.

This shot was trickier to get. Almost all the cameras right near the windows on the penthouse floor were busted, mostly from debris. But Tony managed to snag one from the far corner of the lounge that just barely caught the double touching his own shoulder, the rest of what he does lost behind the décor, then— and this is by far the worst bit:

He turns on his heel and leaps out the broken window.

“What—?” Bruce chokes.

But Tony’s already shaking his head, pulling up the three seconds of extra footage. The three seconds that had him sweating and vomiting into a SHIELD hospital toilet just an hour before. It’s a miracle that Barton was too out of it to notice when Tony came back even paler and shakier than before.

It’s a compilation of shots from multiple floors. Each camera at a particular vantage point which meant they had a partial view out the windows. All facing the same side of the building. All managing to capture as Tony’s double fell to what should have been his death.

It wasn’t.

Tony breathes through his nose as the other Avengers— and _god_ what a silly nickname but Tony kind of loves it, kind of loves being part of a group, a _team_ , in an awful sort of way that makes him nauseous and hopeful all at once— The _Avengers_ , they watch the three seconds it takes to see a man fall past window after window. Two seconds he’s freefalling. Half a second later and he’s been encased it vibrant red. It takes the last half a second to see him shoot away over the New York skyline, way too quickly out of sight.

There’s a breath, then—

“Is this all the footage you have? Of that?”

Tony doesn’t look at Romanov. Just lets the three seconds play over and over and over again.

He doesn’t throw up this time.

He’s quite proud of himself.

“Yes,” he says, even prouder that his voice sounds vaguely level. Like he’s hammered it over and over and somehow he’s just barely strong enough to keep it from shattering. “JARVIS and I are great at hacking, but it’s much more difficult to get ahold of footage from cameras that don’t belong to me. Especially when most of those cameras belong on streets that have been destroyed in an alien invasion.” He swallows. “We’re working on it.”

“That was your suit,” Bruce says, voice a little high. “That- _Tony._ Whoever’s masquerading as you has a _suit_.”

Thor makes a confused sound. “I do not understand. Is the armour that you wear uncommon?”

“The only other person who has one is Rhodey, my very best bestie. So it’s a two-person club. Highly exclusive. And that imposter is _definitely_ not him. Rhodey-bear hates the hot-rod red and gold. Says it’s egotistic and too flashy.” Tony grins but it falls flat. “But hey, never said the guy had good taste. He’s friends with me after all.”

Rogers frowns. “There’s no one else who has one? Are you sure? It can’t be _that_ hard to make.”

Before Tony can how fucking _wrong_ he is, Romanov butts in.

“Stark’s a genius.” She says it so simply that Tony’s mouth snaps closed.  “Look, I know you haven’t been in this century for long, Rogers, so you don’t have a full grasp on how the world has changed. Which,” she says a bit louder when Rogers’ face pinches and he opens his mouth the object, “is _not_ on you. You’ve barely been out of the ice. You haven’t had a lot of time to acclimate and learn. It’s difficult and traumatic and it’s amazing how far you’ve already come,” she continues more gently.

Rogers shifts uncomfortably, glancing into his lap.

“But no one can do what Stark does. The Iron Man has already been called into question. Stark has been to the Supreme Court over it. People all over the world have tried to recreate the suit, all without success.”

“Except for that one guy,” Barton mutters.

Tony twitches. “Vanko. And Hammer. Yeah, no. That was…extenuating circumstances.”

Romanov eyes him. “Even so, it was a resounding failure.” She turns her piercing gaze on Rogers who somehow manages to meet it head on. “Stark has revolutionized the technology industry. He’s _years_ ahead of anyone else we know of. So the fact that _this guy_ ,” she points at the looping clip, “has a suit? That’s a problem.” She turns to Thor. “A _big_ problem.”

They all fall silent. Tony stares sightlessly at the video. Wishes he had answers to all the worst questions.

Did someone hack him? Steal all his schematics and designs? Or was someone smart enough to recreate it? To _surpass_ Tony? Because it barely took any time at all for the suit to encase his imposter out of seemingly _nowhere_.

“Can we watch the first clip again?”

Barton is staring at the video with a thoughtful expression.

Shrugging, Tony obliges by bringing it back up. They all watch once more as there’s a flash of red at the Penthouse window, as the man slips down the hall. As he pauses, opens his mouth—

“Can you zoom in?”

He does, messing with the resolution at the same time. A string of static slips down the image but doesn’t obscure the doppelganger’s mouth.

Barton chokes, eyes widening.

“Clint?” Romanov’s immediately wary, fingers clenching around Barton’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Re-repeat that?” Barton coughs, hand over his mouth, expression tinging on hysterical. “Please? Play it again.”

Heart in his throat, Tony rewinds the clip and lets it play again. The man says something, pauses a moment, looking thoughtful, then jerks his head over at the elevator.

Barton bursts into strangled laughter. He curls around his bow and presses his fingers into his eyes like it’ll shield him from the rest of the world. Like he can white-out whatever images are burned into the backs of his eyelids. “Jesus,” he laughs. “Oh _fuck_.” He gasps through his laughter as they stare.

Romanov leans into her friend and stares down at him with an apprehensive expression.

Tony would be, too, considering what Barton’s been through the last few days.

When Barton finally manages to calm down and draw enough breath, he wipes away the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. If he sniffles a bit more than necessary, they don’t mention anything at all.

“Clint,” Romanov implores, “what did he say?”

A hysterical giggle slips through Barton’s lips before he manages to catch it. He coughs and does a very poor job of smoothing his expression over. After clearing his throat, he adopts a strange voice which can only be his attempt at mimicking Tony. “Mr. Rogers,” he says, “I almost forgot that that suit did _nothing_ for your ass.”

Everything stutters to a halt.

“Excuse me?” Rogers says, faint and clearly scandalized.

Laughter bubbles up Tony’s throat and bursts out from between his chapped lips. It’s wild and just as hysterical as Barton’s and it leaves him shaking quaking gasping for breath like he’s fucking in space again and the last of the oxygen is already in his aching lungs. Tension practically vibrates out of his body, leaving him boneless and trembling and teary eyed but _Dio santo! Fuck._

“That’s- that’s what he said,” Barton confesses, voice strangled high and thin. “I fuckin’ shit you _not_.” Another giggle escapes. “Then he says, _‘It’s ridiculous.’_ ”

“ _Porca Dio!”_ Tony chortles. “Barton, you’re a fuckin’ _treat. Thank you.”_

“You are indeed very fortunate, Captain Rogers,” Thor acquiesces, eyes glinting with mischief.

That just sets Tony and Barton off once more while Rogers sits stiff as a board, face beet red and scrunched in mortification.

After they’ve calmed down and Barton has leaned over Roger’s lap to give Tony’s shoulder a fond rap, Barton wipes his eyes once more and clears his throat.

“That’s not, uh- actually what I wanted to zoom in on.” Barton peers over at Tony and extends a hand, wiggling his fingers. “Do y’mind?”

Silently, Tony slides the tablet across Rogers’ lap and Barton picks it up without comment. The archer pulls the feed back a few seconds, squinting at the screen. Then he pinches the image and spreads his fingers, zooming in on the doppelganger’s shoulder.

“That,” he says, suddenly all serious again. “That’s what I wanted to take a look at.”

Frowning, Tony obligingly inspects the frozen image, finds what Barton was looking for. Blinks. Then blinks again. _“Che due palle,”_ he breathes.

“Yes,” Thor says just as faint. “What two balls, indeed.”

There, on the screen, is a tiny man. Almost as small as a bug, suited up in red and black and silver, his face is obscured by a mask. He stands frozen upon the doppelganger’s shoulder, arm raised mid-salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony is canonically fluent in several languages, and can get by in a few others. It's my personal headcanon that he's been fluent in Italian from a very young age due to Maria's influence. It's also my personal headcanon that he was a bit of a chatterbox in Italian when he was little and that when he grew older he was discouraged from speaking it (particularly by Howard) because English is the unfortunate domineering language of the US. So now when he's super tired (as is the case here) or comfortable or lets his guard down, he slips up into Italian. Plus, Maria TOTALLY had a fuckin' potty mouth.
> 
> BTW I literally just googled Italian curse words, found a few articles, then cross-checked them with different websites.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m…guessing this isn’t normal. For the twenty-first century.” Steve’s so tentative it hurts.

“No, it’s most definitely not.” Bruce sounds so weary Tony kind of wants to wrap a blanket around him.

Barton lets out a harsh breath. “Well, it’s no more fucked up than a mad alien trying to take over earth and a couple of creepy doppelgangers.” Straightening his hunched form, Barton stretches with a groan, back popping. When he yawns, jaw cracking open wide, there’s a glint of lettuce caught between his teeth. “So, what’re we dealing with, then?” he says, eyes focused as he taps the tablet’s surface, trying to zoom in even more.

Thor leans in, intent, gaze curious. “I’ve never seen anything of its like. There is no spell I know of that can do this, nor any sentient creature so small in stature. At least,” he nods at the rest of them, “nothing humanoid.”

“So,” Bruce says slowly, like he doesn’t even want to say anything, “we can assume that maybe…this originates from earth.”

Tony cringes. “Brucie, I really hope you aren’t implying what I think you are.”

The man in question catches Tony’s gaze with a pained, resigned look. “If it involves completely upturning our understanding of physics? Maybe.”

“Oh good, because I thought you were going to say that there’s a race of tiny ant people running around earth who are actually our secret overlords.”

“That’s…” Bruce narrows his eyes. “Tony, no.”

“Good good,” Tony mutters, turning his attention on the projected screen again. “Hey, Barton, my man? Mind combing through the footage we’ve already gone through? You’ve got a pretty sweet pair of eyes there. No wonder they call you Hawkeye. See if we can spot this little guy anywhere else he isn’t supposed to be? Oh, and leave that still of him projected?” Tony pauses. Then, belatedly: “Please?”

Barton huffs a laugh. “Sure, Stark.” It takes a few seconds for him to figure out how to keep the clip projected while going through the other footage, but he manages it. Tony’s impressed. StarkPads aren’t on the market yet and while they’re pretty easy to use, Barton himself seems very intuitive.

Frowning, Tony leans in close to the projected image, biting his lip. The suit seems familiar…But he can’t quite place it. It’s like a tickle in the back of his throat. He knows it’s there and it’s irritating as fuck but he can’t quite manage to…

“Mind sharing with the class, Stark?”

“Hm?” Tony glances up at Rogers, who’s staring at him with one eyebrow raised. It’s a bit judgey, a bit amused.

“You were muttering,” Rogers explains, lips quirking.

Tony gawps maybe a second too long before collecting himself. “I was just thinking that- well. The suit looks familiar. I can’t place it, though.” He pauses, touching his earpiece absentmindedly. “Hey, JARVIS, how you doing with civilian footage? Government footage? Found anything on the streets?”

_“Not yet, sir. Many of the cameras within the immediate radius of the Tower are too severely damaged to have caught anything substantial.”_

Tony bites his lip. “Keep looking, JARVIS. Expand the parametres and let me know once you find anything.”

_“Of course, sir.”_

Sighing, Tony leans back, tapping his lip absentmindedly.

“So we’ve got two doppelgangers, a tiny man, a copycat suit and some pretty impossible timing.” Bruce ticks each one off on his fingers, brow furrowed in thought. “We’ve got some pretty solid evidence that they’re all working together, but what’s with the fake Captain American exiting the scene only to reappear just a second later _from the opposite direction?_ That’s freaky, right? I can’t be the only one creeped out by that.”

“It is strange,” Thor muses. “I must wonder if it is the same person at all?”

Bruce is already nodding. “Two people masquerading as the Captain. Working together? One with a fake scepter and the other one with the real thing? But why? I’m guessing they were planning a switch, and it must have gone awry when the _real_ Captain America came across them. But since Thor confirmed the authenticity of the scepter _we_ ended up with—”

“And I _am_ right.”

“—we have to assume—”

“I think.”

_“Excuse me?”_

“I mean,” Thor shrugs, “I am very certain. Almost definitely.” He beams, expression so blindingly cheerful it was difficult to look at. Or even really conceive. The man is just…a blinding ray of sunshine. And terrible angst, when it comes to his brother. It’s a disconcerting combination, especially how incredibly intelligent Tony suspects he is. “Carry on.”

“Uh, _no._ Back up.” Bruce twists to fully face Thor.

Thor stares down at him, eyes wide and confused. Tentative, he takes a half step back, clearly unsure if he’s caused offence.

Tony notices that Romanov very carefully doesn’t move a muscle.

_“No,”_ Bruce huffs, exasperated. “That’s not—” He stops. Takes a deep breath. Visibly smooths his face into some semblance of calm. “What I _meant_ was: what do _you_ mean? You just _think_ you’re right about our scepter being genuine? Did you just- what? Take a guess?”

Scowling and looking more like a kicked puppy than anything else, Thor shakes his head. “You doubt me?”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Bruce splutters a bit hysterically. “When you say, ‘I think I’m right about this really important thing but I’m not one hundred percent sure,’ I think I’ve got some reason to doubt! You even doubt _yourself._ ”

Thor’s scowl deepens. “I am over a millennium old. I have seen things you cannot even _dream_ of.”

Unimpressed, Bruce raises a brow.

Lips pressed in a subtle pout, Thor glances down at his hammer. “And I am not completely sure.” At Bruce’s exasperated noise, he looks back up, expression mulish. “Though I am quite certain. There is a…” Trailing off, he sighs, lifting his hammer absentmindedly in a vague gesture. “There is this sense of _power._ It is unsettling. Invigorating. _Addictive.”_ He pauses, as if considering his thoughts. “I have never come across something anything quite like the scepter, or the Tesseract, for that matter. I believe them to be ancient. My father would not speak of it. I only know that they hold great power.” His fingers clench white around his hammer. “Too much for any mortal being.”

“There are immortal ones?” Tony can’t help but ask.

Thor looks over at him with hollowed eyes. When he smiles, it isn’t a nice one. “Yes, though most who believe themselves to be immortal are merely mad with power.”

Tony can’t find it in himself to reply.

“So Banner,” Thor turns to Bruce, eyes beseeching, “please trust me.”

Bruce chews his lip, brows painfully furrowed.

Thor turns his gaze to the rest of them. “Please,” he repeats. “Please trust me.”

_“Trust you?”_

Tony flinches hard, head jerking to stare at Barton. The archer curls around the StarkPad, knuckles white. A tremor runs through him, tightening the lines of his weary face where something awful rests, twisting it with self-loathing or fear or denial. “How can we possibly trust you?”

Lips curling in a half snarl, startled fury flashing across his face, Thor plants a foot forward. “For what reason would I have to betray you?!”

“Your brother is running amok,” Barton snaps. “You were helping escort him out and he _escaped._ He’s murdered and he’s brainwashed me and he tried to _take over the planet._ I know you fought to save this planet, but you aren’t from earth. You don’t age like us, you don’t _live_ like us. You’ve spent a thousand years with your brother and you’ve only known us for a few days. How do we know you aren’t actually in on it with him? How do we know that the _second_ he shows up, sniveling about how he’s sorry and how he’s never going to do this again, you won’t just turn your back on us? We’re just _ants_ to you. We’ll be long dead before you even get a single grey hair.” He spits out a bitter laugh. “And you’re asking us to _trust_ you.”

Face stricken, Thor takes a step back. He opens his mouth, doesn’t say a word. Anger flickers across his expression, then resignation.

“I’ve been burned before,” Romanov says, quiet but no less dangerous. “It doesn’t take much to betray someone.”

Heart racing, Tony’s breath hitches. He tries to think of something to say, _anything,_ but all he hears is the pounding in his ears and the rattling in his lungs.

Luckily, Thor finds his words.

“I love him with all my heart,” Thor says quietly, a thread of tension in his words. “We grew up together, fought together, endured countless hardships with only each other to rely upon.” He falls silent for a moment. “I understand your concern. The Aesir are gifted with long lifespans and you must think that these last few days have been but a passing moment to me. An irritating setback in my usual life.” He sighs heavily then, shoulders drooping and eyes shadowed.

“That is not true,” he continues slowly. “I have found that the greatest bonds have been forged in battle but…I realize now that it is unfair of me to ask for your trust. You do not know me, though I sorely hope we do become friends.” 

Tony holds his breath.

“I love my brother,” Thor says, more resolved than before, “but I do not love him blindly. Yes, I hold out hope for him. Until recently he has been my constant loyal companion. My kind, but selfish brother. Courageous to a fault. I thought I understood Loki, but perhaps I was not as good a brother as I should have been. I was too concerned with myself. My worthiness,” he clenches his hammer, “my repute. I was not there when he needed me most, and so he found himself lost.” He trails off, staring sightlessly down at the way the light reflects off the weapon in his hand.

“Cool story,” Barton grunts. “Still not impressed.”

Clenching his jaw, Thor squeezes his eyes shut. “I love my brother, but he must also answer for his crimes. Perhaps when we catch him—” He swallows convulsively. “ _If_ we catch him, I can give him the support I was not able to before. Perhaps I will be able to help him.” He pauses. “I told you before that he was adopted. Neither of us discovered this until recently. We always believed us to be blood brothers, born of the same mother, the same father.”

“Blood doesn’t matter,” Tony rasps quietly, voice breaking. “Blood doesn’t mean shit.”

Thor flashes Tony a wry, pained grin. “You are wise, Stark. It should not matter, and perhaps it would not have if I had been there when Loki found out alone that he was born an unwanted welp of a prince born on Jötunheim. It is an icy, cruel planet where the Jötunn live. They are a race of ice giants whom have been our mortal enemies for thousands of years. My father beat them into submission a millennium ago, when they attempted to conquer earth. In doing so he found my brother, Loki, a mere babe abandoned in a temple. He disguised him as a child of Aesir, then took Loki and raised him as his own, on Asgard where any child knows the terrors of the Jötunn monsters.”

There’s silence.

“That really fucks a person up,” Tony manages.

“It still doesn’t excuse what he’s done,” Romanov says, voice hard and unforgiving. But there’s an unsettled look upon her face. “I’ve…” she trails off, blinks, purses her lips. “My upbringing may have created the basis of who I am today, but that doesn’t mean it truly defines me. It doesn’t mean I can’t move past it, do good things, help people. It doesn’t mean I can’t _be better_ than what they _made me_.”

Barton reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing it hard.

“Romanov’s right,” Rogers finally says, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. “I know you love you brother, Thor, and yes he probably needs a lot of help. But it doesn’t excuse anything he’s done. A messy past doesn’t excuse your actions. Your intent doesn’t matter if you end up hurting people.”

Involuntarily, Tony curls up into his himself, hand rising once more to tap at the reactor. It’s cold against his fingertips, an aching hum in his chest.

Thor sighs, heavy, staring down at his hammer once more. “I understand. I truly do.” And for some reason, it really does sound like he understands.

There’s an awkward few seconds where everyone is silent, clearly not knowing what to say. A tension exists in the room where there hadn’t been before. It’s awful and the urge to vomit rises again in Tony’s stomach, crawling up behind his aching sternum to settle unpleasantly in the back of his throat.

Bruce breaks the silence.

“If we don’t trust you,” the man says slow and measured, “if we decide we can’t trust your judgement or your word that you won’t help Loki if we find him…What happens to you? Do you go back to Asgard? Search on your own? If we found him before you, would you come back?”

Thor’s face crumples. “I…I do not know,” he murmurs. “The Tesseract was my only way home. The Bifrost is destroyed. My father used dark magic to send me here. It is not used lightly, and I doubt my father will have the energy nor the means to gather enough to summon me back to Asgard.” He glances over to the window where the fading light glows through the curtains.

“The damage to the Bifrost will not be repaired for a while yet. I did not think—” Thor swallows, gaze dropping to his feet. “I did not even consider that I would fail in capturing my brother and bringing him home. I spent so long thinking he had killed himself and now- now I find he has committed the worst of atrocities towards your planet and now he has _escaped_ and I—” he chokes, eyes glinting awfully. “I am alone. Stranded here on earth.”

Tony’s breath leaves him all at once in a wounded noise, but it’s Bruce who reaches out first.

“Not alone.”

It’s- it’s an odd sight. Seeing Bruce reach out without hesitation, fingers twitching as they brush Thor’s shoulder. But then he grasps the Asgardian’s shoulder tight, a strange and empathetic look quirking the edge of his lips, creasing the corners of his eyes. Tony hasn’t seen Bruce touch anyone. Not of his own accord. Not even Tony himself.

Thor startles, peering up through his eyelashes to stare at Bruce. His eyes trail down the man’s arm to consider the hand upon his shoulder. After a moment, his face softens and he raises a hand to cover Bruce’s fingers. “Thank you.”

“We won’t—” Roger’s hand trembles on the blanket before he clenches it tight. “You’re not alone, Thor. We won’t abandon you.” His voice is a bit too raw, too emotional for Tony to handle, but he ends up blurting something out anyways.

“Until the they fix the Bifrost or your dad gets some more dark magic or whatever, you’re welcome to chill at my place. Maybe we can figure out something to send you home, if we don’t find Loki. I _am_ a genius, after all.”

Everyone seems to jerk their heads around at that, and suddenly Tony finds himself under five pairs of scrutinizing eyes. He does his best not to shrink into himself. Normally he’s good at this. At people. Or at least, _pretending_ to be good at people. Distracting and dazzling until they only pay attention to what he wants them to look at. Right now he’s just too tired and raw and _fuck_ he’s getting old.

“I mean,” he tries again, backtracking and thinking about what he just said and the position he’s in right now and what exactly he can offer. “The Tower is a bit a bit fucked right now, but there are some floors that aren’t too bad. The structure is sound. I wouldn’t have built it if it couldn’t last a shit ton of earthquakes and maybe a tsunami and possibly bombs because _you know._ Things happen. So. It’s like, not too terrible. You guys could live there fairly comfortably.” He pauses, bites his lip.

“Okay, so, it wouldn’t be a five-star hotel or anything for a bit. Not until we fix it up. And we definitely wouldn’t be the only ones housed there. Gotta shelter anyone who needs it and maybe set up some free clinics, I’m not sure yet. But I can cordon off a couple floors for us. Well, maybe one. At least until all this blows over and New York gets a bit put back together and then we wouldn’t have to share anymore. But at least you’d have someplace to stay. Can’t throw my teammates back out on the streets, right? That’s just not right. Got buckets of money so might as well use it.” He trails off, frowns, hand going for his phone.

“Gotta figure out which floors are good to go right now, though,” he mutters, pulling out his phone and bringing up the most current schematics of the Tower. “JARVIS has been pulling some serious overtime scanning and running diagnostics. Gotta hire people to clear up the debris, get some more floors habitable. Or, well, maybe I could just do that. Got the suit. I built part of the Tower myself, after all.”

“Stark?”

“Hm?”

A hand settles over his phone covering the screen and gently pushing it down into his lap. Confused, Tony looks up into Cap’s blue blue eyes and has to blink for several moments, completely startled. “What?” he says dumbly.

“You…” Rogers falters, licks his lips. “You want to house us?”

Tony frowns. “Uh, yeah? Didn’t I say so?”

“Stark,” Thor says, voice all tremulous. “You are inviting me into your home, even though…”

_Even though._

Suddenly everything shutters over Tony’s eyes and he skootches back out of Rogers reach, the super soldier’s hand sliding warm over his until he’s just left cold and alone, chair screeching across the floor.

“I mean.” Tony stops, fingers clenching white around his phone. “You don’t- you don’t have to. I understand. I’m hard to handle, difficult to live with. Of course you don’t wanna live in close quarters what was I thinking. Sorry I- _cazzo. Porca miseria!_ Sorry I said anything. I just thought— What with the damage to the city and I dunno, maybe just- trying to figure out what the fuck is going on with these doppelgangers and tiny men and the scepter and Loki running off— I’m not trying to force you into—”

“That is not what I meant, Stark,” Thor interrupts. His smile is far too gentle and kind for Tony to handle. It’s far more than he deserves, really. “I am grateful and very humbled that you would welcome me into your home. I am in your debt.” He pauses, smile widening, then: “Thank you, Anthony,” he says carefully, like he’s testing it on his tongue and deciding he likes how it tastes.

Flushing hot and sudden, Tony ducks his head awkwardly. No one’s called him that since…well. Since his mother. “Uh- it’s. You can just call me Tony,” he murmurs quickly, words tumbling out of his mouth in a mess.

“It is very generous of you,” Rogers says just as carefully, but Tony can’t decipher his expression. Can’t read the look in the man’s eyes. “I don’t want to imposition you, though.” His hands twist in his lap, body language just as awkward as Tony is feeling.

“Nah,” Tony tries to drawl, “it’s all right. You’re kinda likeable under all that stubborn, Rogers.”

A small, startled laugh escapes Rogers and he quirks a tiny grin at Tony. Nothing that small should be so bright, in Tony’s opinion. It’s blasphemous. Addicting. Caught him completely off guard with no warning whatsoever. Something like that should come with a label. An expensive one at that. He could get drunk off it. It’s too bad he wants to make Rogers laugh a bit more, he’s been trying to lay off the alcohol a bit more lately.

“It…might be a good idea,” Romanov concedes. “Especially since we might be dealing with a leak and we don’t know how deep it goes or who to trust.” She pauses for a moment, then considers Thor, meeting his gaze unfalteringly. She tips her head in a slight nod. “The only people we know we can trust are in this room.”

This time when Thor’s shoulders slump it’s in relief, and he offers her a tentative smile in return.

“But how do you know that?” Barton asks, voice cracking. “How do you—” He chokes, hand slipping away from Romanov’s before she can tighten her hold. Determinedly avoiding their eyes, he glares down at his lap.

“How can you ask me to trust anyone,” he rasps, “when I- when I can’t even trust _myself?”_

_“Clint,”_ Romanov murmurs, sounding wrecked, “I told you. That wasn’t you.”

“But it _was_.”

_“No,_ it _wasn’t.”_

“Wait,” Tony sputters, “are you seriously trying to tell us that you willingly sided with the villain here? You murdered a bunch of people because you wanted to?”

_“Stark,”_ Rogers snaps.

Distracted, Tony waves a shushing hand at him and scoots his chair forward again to peer at Barton. “Well?”

Barton doesn’t quite look at him, his gaze darting to the corner of his eye _. “No,_ it wasn’t willing. Of _course_ it wasn’t, but I still—”

“Nah,” Tony interrupts, completely bulldozing over his teammate. “Nope. Loki hijacked your brain and used your body like a puppet. You had no control. You did not make those decisions and you are _not responsible_ for your actions.”

“He’s right.”

Brows shooting up his forehead, Tony stares at Rogers.

Rogers doesn’t look at him, though. Instead, he reaches and lays a steady hand on Barton’s shoulder, pressing into his side a bit more firmly, blankets wrinkling about them. “A madman used you. He stole your autonomy. Every single death over the last few days if his fault, not yours.”

“But…but without me…Germany, the helicarrier, _Phil_ —”

_“No.”_ Romanov reaches out to snatch his hand in a painful grip. “Phil made his choice. He knew what he was getting into. It’s a hazard of the job. He always knew he was going to die on the clock.” She rubs a thumb over his scratched-up hand. “And if it wasn’t you, then Loki would have found someone else.”

There’s a suspicious glint in Barton’s eyes and his face scrunches up like it hurts. “Loki’s still out there. If- if we don’t know that our scepter is the real one— If he has it, he could- he could do it again and I—” Barton’s eyes are so hollow. So haunted. “I’d rather die than let that happen again,” he whispers hoarsely.

Tony very carefully keeps his breaths even. Tries not to think about Obadiah and Afghanistan and soldiers with glassy eyes and blood spattered faces. _Desperately_ tries not to think of Howard teaching him how to disassemble a gun when he was only six years old. His father’s disappointed voice in his ear when Tony was old enough to realize that guns _kill_ people. Except his father said that _people_ kill people and the only thing you can do is kill them before they kill you. And sometimes you have to put a gun in someone’s hand if you want them to live, if _you_ want to live.

“I will not let that happen.”

Tony blinks and suddenly Thor is kneeling by Barton’s side, grave and so frightfully earnest. Hammer balanced upon his knee and a hand on Barton’s calve, Thor stares up into Barton’s startled face. “I swear it upon my life, upon my mother’s life. I will protect you. Never again will your free will be taken.”

“You—” Barton splutters, eyes wide and bloodshot. “What the fuck?”

Thor bows his head, hair slipping over his shoulders like molten gold. “I swear it. Upon my honour, I will protect you. This injustice was born from the wrongs of Asgard’s past, from my own family. It falls upon my own shoulders. Loki would not have come here if not for our inadequacy. I wish to make this right.” He peers up at Barton, eyes glinting. “I _must._ ”

“Thor- that’s not—” Barton stutters, flush high and ruddy on his cheeks. “I don’t—”

_“Please.”_ Oh so gentle, Thor squeezes Barton’s calve. “I will protect you, and if I fail, may Mjölnir be stripped from me for I would no longer be worthy.”

There’s a crackle in the air. It plays upon Tony’s skin and sparks between his teeth. When he breathes ozone fills his lungs, and when he exhales sea salt speckles along his tongue. His hair brushes soft along his forehead but there is no breeze, and Thor’s eyes glow like a lightning strike upon the roiling sea.

But then Tony blinks it is gone. Barton is left gaping down at Thor and Thor still gazes up at him, no longer beseeching but resolute.

“I will earn your trust,” Thor declares, “and you will learn to trust yourself again, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue heavy, but these guys have a _lot _to discuss as well as some serious issues that they need to talk out in order to trust each other. Esp. since they're beginning to realize they're not sure they _can _trust anyone else.____
> 
> (it feels like they're gonna spend forever in this hospital room but I SWEAR they'll be out soon)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, it's been a busy couple'a weeks.
> 
> tw: panic attack; if you need to, you should be good to skip until: "But it’s also the safest he’s felt in a very, very long time." Quick summary at end to know what you missed

The thing about saving the world is that you don’t really get any rest. It’s a rush of adrenaline and dread and terrible, terrible hope. The near-crippling anxiety fills your chest with the knowledge that every harried, gasping breath might be your last. You are deaf to everything but the jackrabbiting of your heart, a tripping, stumbling beat that pounds and pounds and pounds as the blood rushes through your ears. Time seems to slow down to the careful creep of ice as it freezes your feet solid and then the next second your can _feel_ the spin of the earth at 1000 miles per hour, the whirl of the planet as it hurtles through space at _67000_ miles per hour and it’s all you can do to hold on, flattened to the ground, as you spin and spin and spin around that blazing sun.

You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you don’t even sit down.

All you can really hope for is that you don’t fall.

Except Tony did.

He fell and yeah he was caught but it still feels like he’s falling.

Staring at the video of that tiny man slipping down his shirt collar right before he had a heart attack and then crawling out of his sleeve right afterwards sure feels falling.

These last few hours his mind just keeps coming back to one question:

_Did I even wake up at all?_

Because he sure as hell never left that battlefield. Everything is a fucking battle, some new challenge he’s tossed into and never mind that whiplash, he’s just gotta deal with it.

Barton clears his throat awkwardly. “This is—”

“Disturbing?” Tony bites out high and choking, like the words were snatched right out of his mouth. “Kind of really awful? Could be used for some kinky shit I don’t wanna think about?”

Barton shoots Tony a weary look. The man heaves a sigh like he’d rather be anywhere but here, and maybe that’s true. It’s certainly true of Tony. Except Tony’s a bit impressed that Barton hasn’t lost it yet, considering the whole brainwashing thing and Thor pledging his protection or whatever like less than an hour ago. Maybe then Barton almost lost it. There was this caged look in his eyes and he’d certainly _tried_ to argue with Thor, but the Asgardian was stubborn Barton was obviously dead fuckin’ tired.

Tony’s glad Thor isn’t in the room right now, if he’s honest. Him and Bruce, out getting more food. It’s bad enough that he’s got Barton, Romanov and Rogers here while he tries to just- _breathe_. Maybe he can send out everyone else to get food, too. Maybe _he_ should go get food. But nah that means he has to go out into the hall where there are even _more_ people and _fuck._ Fuck. This tiny guy could crawl back into his arc reactor right now and he wouldn’t know.

He wouldn’t even know.

Not until he’s shaking quaking gasping for breath as his heart fails on him over and over and over again.

“If I was any less tired, I’d shove a joke in there,” Barton says, squinting at Tony.

“Well,” Tony manages, voice strangled and grating as he anxiously taps his arc reactor, “you’re a little late ‘cause someone already did the shoving _somewhere_.”

“Hey,” Romanov says from where she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Quickly, she leans over Barton’s and Roger’s legs to put a steady hand on Tony’s forearm. “Hey, Stark, breathe. You’re going to be okay. Did you check your arc reactor afterwards? Replace it?”

Tony chokes out a high laugh. “You seriously think I had _time?_ _Loki_ had just disappeared and then the fucking _Cap doppelganger_ showed up and then the _security footage_ and we had to drop Cap off here and then the debriefing and—”

“Alright,” Romanov says far too calmly. “I understand. Have you had any trouble with it since?”

“You mean since a tiny man _slipped into my body and fucked with the thing that keeps me alive?_ Why no. No, I don’t think so. Nothing other than that little hiccup. Everything’s fucking peachy dandy. _Cazzo Madre di Dio!”_

“Stark,” Romanov says. She slips over the bed to perch next to him. “Hey. Look at me.”

“No,” Tony manages through shortened breath, staring at the tablet in Barton’s hands. “No, I want to take a good look at this fucker. _Cazzo di merda!_ JARVIS have you found anything yet? I- I need to tear him a new one. I need- I need to—”

_“Sir, your heartrate is—”_

“Hey- hey, Stark. _Tony_.”

Cool hands slip over his cheeks, callouses rasping across his beard. Fingertips dig into his cheekbones, his temple, and his gaze is guided away from the video to look into pale green eyes. His breath comes fast and quick, hot over his dry lips and uncomfortable in his tight chest. It’s like his ribs are slowly curling in, choking him, digging into his lungs, his heart, into his _reactor_. The reactor that’s humming thrumming _vibrating_ and it’s making his arms go numb and maybe his head a bit too _merda merda merda!_ He _wishes_ he could just go numb _porco cane_ he just needs a _break_ he just- but he can’t- someone was _in the reactor— someone has his suit—_ he- he fucking _died—_

“—ow it’s frightening. It always is. But I’m here with you, okay? I’m here with you. Can you focus on me? Can you tell me where you are? Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

Wheezing, vision spotting blackblackblack like the portal, his shaking hands spasm. They squeeze the small hand in his. He grips as hard as he can and he isn’t sure if it’s very strong at all he just knows he has to hold on, has to hold tight otherwise he might go floating away again. Might keep falling falling falling in a place where there is no end just the black and the awful swathe of sparkling stars.

“That’s good. Good. Very good, Tony. Do you need to lay down? Some fresh air?”

Slowly, Tony begins to focus on the intent green eyes staring into his. They’re so pale, like faded grass. Older but still soft against his fingertips. Still that lingering scent of sweetness. He barely manages to shake his head, still gasping for breath. Still not able to make any coherent sound.

“Okay. That’s alright. You’re alright. You’re safe here. You’re at SHIELD, do you remember? You’re in the medical wing.”

_“It is May 4 th 2012, 6:53pm EST,” _JARVIS elaborates soothingly in his ear. _“You are in New York, New York. You are currently on the sixth level of the New York SHIELD Headquarters, in the left section of the medical wing, room 616. Miss Potts and Mr. Hogan are safe in Washington, DC. Colonel Rhodes is confirmed safe at an undisclosed airbase. DUME-E, U and Butterfingers have sustained minimal damage and are currently awaiting your return to your Private Lab in the Tower.”_

“Tony, are you with me? Do you know where you are?”

Fingers spasming again, Tony nods, breath rasping and painful in his throat. “Y-y—” He chokes on the word, coughing and spluttering, vision fuzzing black like he’s closing his eyes but he’s pretty sure he isn’t. Like he’s fading away into the night. Like he’s falling upupup into the black and the cold and he’s alone—

“Breathe with me, okay? I’m going to count one to five while you breathe in through your nose. Then you’re gonna hold for three, and then exhale for five through your mouth. Can you do that for me?”

Tony manages another nod. The first few attempts are awful, and he’s distantly horrified to realize that his vision is blurred with frustrated, overwhelmed tears. But there’s a gentle hand stroking his cheek, smoothing the hair away from his forehead. There’s another in his hands that doesn’t even flinch when his nails dig into fragile skin. But eventually he gets better and it’s less like he’s falling with no control and more like he’s clawing his way up a jagged cliff, the edge just within sight. And then within reach.

It’s terrifying. It’s awful. He’s vulnerable and a mess and he kind of wants to die.

But it’s also the safest he’s felt in a very, very long time.

Finally, breath still a bit shaky and his hands _definitely_ trembling, he wobbles a weak, “Thank you.” His eyes slip closed so he doesn’t have to take in Romanov’s far too understanding face.

“You’re welcome,” she says simply. Her hand strokes over his hair one last time before she holds both his hands in her reassuring grip. “You had a panic attack.”

“Yeah,” he rasps.

“Have you ever had one before?”

“Not- not for a long time.” He doesn’t say he got them as a kid. Doesn’t say he got them after Afghanistan. In college. At boarding school. At home when he knew he could do better but he just _wasn’t_ and he was going to disappoint his father he was going to make him _angry—_

“Hey, no. Don’t go wherever your mind is wandering right now. You’re safe. You’re here. With me. I’m not letting you go.” Her hands squeeze him tight. “I’m not letting you slip away from me.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Traitorous tears well hot beneath his eyelids and slip out between his lashes. They trail hot down his cheeks, but he doesn’t wipe them away. He’s just…so. Exhausted. He kind of just wants to fall into Romanov, curl up on her lap and let her stroke his hair all day even though he doesn’t think he could trust her with much. Not after she infiltrated his company and jabbed a needle in his neck. It’s awful that he must rely on her, but maybe he can trust her with this. Maybe this is okay. Maybe Pepper would be proud of him for it.

God, he just wants Pepper. And Rhodey. _Mio Dio_ he wants them so bad. Maybe if they were here everything would make more sense. Maybe if they were here it would be safe enough to _sleep._ JARVIS helps, at least. But as much as he loves him, sometimes he just needs a bit of human warmth to curl into.

A calloused thumb caresses the back of his hand. “Do you need anything?”

It takes a moment for the question to process. There’s a delay between his brain and his lips that’s frightening but it’s too much to think about right now. “Water,” he rasps.

He breathes, licks his lips, almost says _Pepper._ Almost says _Rhodey._ But Pepper is busy helping people after the attack and she thought he was _dead_ and he can’t dump this on her, too. And Rhodey must be reeling from the attack. Must be dealing with _so much shit_ and Tony can’t bother him. Tony can’t possibly bother him with this. There’s so much more that both of them are doing and it’s better for them if he doesn’t cause more trouble. They deal with so much already.

They don’t need this.

Even if he needs them.

Romanov’s hands are cool against his heated skin except- except he’s actually fucking _freezing. Fuck._ Violent shivers wrack his body.

There’s a soft clink, then: “There’s a glass on the table beside you,” Romanov says quietly.

Tony almost bursts into tears again right then because- because she remembered he doesn’t like being handed things. She remembered— and he’s not sure how his body would have reacted if she’d pressed that cold glass into his hand. Maybe he’d have flinched so bad it would’ve fallen to the floor in a shatter of sparkling shards. Maybe he would have thrown it right back into her face. Maybe he wouldn’t have even noticed. It’s been so long since he’s taken anything from anyone besides Pepper or Rhodey or Happy.

As it is, he barely manages to grasp the cold glass with a trembling hand. He wastes no time in gulping it down, but still manages to slough a good amount down his front.

_Fuck._ This is- it’s so embarrassing.

Humiliating.

He hates it.

Head determinedly downturned, Tony slides the glass back onto the side table. Romanov’s still got his other hand in between hers and he wants to snatch it away. Wants to cling on for as long as he possibly can. He’s better with hands. He has to shake them all the time. It’s part of the business. But excessive handholding? That’s something reserved only for Pepper. Occasionally Rhodey. And, on one memorable occasion, Happy. He’s _definitely_ held hands with DUM-E. The needy thing likes it.

Blinking, he’s reminded of Jarvis and Ana. Of his mom. Jarvis would hold his hand when he was sick in bed, fever spiking high and dangerous. He’d cup Tony’s hand between his like it was a baby bird, all fragile feathers and brittle bone. He’d hold Tony’s hand like it was some treasure that deserved protecting. He’d hold his hand and just sit there quietly or read to him or tell him stories from his own childhood or how he met Ana—

And Ana. Dear Ana. They’d squirrel away in the kitchen together and she’d teach him how to make biscuits or cookies or how to cut vegetables just the right size. She’d take his hand and guide him through it and then when they’d take a break, they’d sit at the kitchen table and she’d hold his hand and let him chatter about his day or his studies or anything he wanted, really.

And his mom. His _mammina._ She wasn’t very good with affection. Or, at least, she was awkward with it when Howard was around. Sometimes it seemed like she didn’t really know what to do with Tony. Like he was some strange creature or creation of Howard’s and she knew she was supposed to give him a pat on the head but wasn’t sure how to do it without hurting herself.

But she did her best. Tony knows she did. Up until the day she died, she called him her _bambino._ Her sweet, silly, _stubborn_ child. She’d taught him how to make noodles from scratch, how to play the piano, how to smile in a way that dazzled everyone and hid everything that mattered. She held him close when he cried and held his hand when it trembled from nerves or when he was so angry he couldn’t speak.

Maybe she was gone a lot and maybe she focused on her charities too much and put a ridiculous amount of effort into her appearance. And maybe she missed Italy too often instead of staying in the present, instead of living her life to it’s fullest. And maybe she wasn’t the best person around Howard and didn’t know _how_ to be a happy person around Howard, at least not that Tony ever really saw. But Tony loved her as any son loves his mother, and every time he thinks of her it’s another stab to his weary heart.

If he squeezes his eyes hard enough, he can almost trick himself into believing Romanov’s hands are his mother’s.

But there are callouses where there should only be smooth, soft skin and Tony knows better than to dream.

“Tony.”

He opens his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

Worry creases the corners of Romanov’s eyes. It pinches her mouth tight and crinkles her nose just the slightest. Only Pepper and Rhodey really look at him like that. Sometimes Happy.

“Yeah,” Tony breathes, word trembly. It’s more a sound than a word, really.

“Would it make you feel better if you replaced your reactor?”

“Maybe,” he says quietly. Without thinking, he glances over at the tablet again only to find that Barton has moved. The archer’s standing, bow slung over his shoulder. He hovers awkwardly at the end of the bed as he stares at them wide-eyed, knuckles white as he grips the footboard. The tablet has been tossed aside, half hidden beneath hastily flung sheets.

Tensing, Tony reflexively searches out Rogers.  The man in question has also escaped the bed, leaving a trail of IVs, though the machines aren’t screeching. Lingering in the doorway, he’s just as awkward as Barton, just as stressed. But it looks like he’s one second from sprinting out the door to- Tony doesn’t even know. The bruise smudged across his cheekbone has started to tinge green.

Tony’s gaze drags back to the tablet, drawn to the dark surface, as if he stares hard enough maybe that little guy in the shitty suit will jump out and so Tony can squash him like an ant.

“But I don’t think I’m ever gonna feel better,” he admits. “Not until we find that tiny dicked fucker and find out what the _hell_ is going on.”

Squeezing his hand, Romanov’s gifts him a tight little smile. “We’ll find him.”

“We will,” Rogers declares from the door.

They all look towards him.

Rogers shuffles awkwardly, shoulders going up to his ears for a moment before he straightens. “We _will_ find him. Together.”

Tony feels his face do something funny and he can’t stop it. “Alright, Cap,” he says weakly. “Alright. Whatever you say.”

A frown mars Rogers’ face, but before he can say anything more, there’s a brief knock at the door and a muffled, “It’s us,” before it’s opening and Rogers must scramble away to avoid being hit. Bruce sticks his head in, offering a cautious smile.

“We found some more food,” Bruce says. As he pushes in, Thor close behind, he catches sight of Tony. He pauses, shoulders going rigid. “What happened?”

Tony peers over Romanov’s shoulder and tosses a tired, careless grin. “Nothin’ you need to worry about, Brucie Bear.”

Romanov shoots Tony a very pointed look, before squeezing his hand again. “We discovered that the tiny man went into Stark’s reactor and caused the heart attack. It might have been for a distraction.”

“Doesn’t make it any better,” Barton mutters.

Romanov shakes her head. “I didn’t say it did. No matter whether they intended for Stark to live or die, it makes them our enemy. They attacked one of our own.” She cuts off, eyes widening just the slightest, like she hadn’t meant to say that last bit.

Still trembling just the slightest, from exhaustion, from the panic attack, from the overwhelming situation, Tony isn’t sure— but after a moment’s thought he manages enough strength to carefully place his free hand over Romanov’s. Her fingers tense beneath his, then she’s rubbing a thumb over chilled skin.

“Stark didn’t react well,” she admits.

“Didn’t—” Bruce echoes, before realization dawns in his eyes. Immediately, he’s shoving the bag of food in his hands at Thor and beelining towards Tony. He rounds the bed, then sits right down next to Romanov. Determined, Bruce reaches out to peer at him. He examines him closely, taking in the trembling, the exhaustion that must be smudged deep beneath Tony’s scratchy eyes. “Panic attack?” Bruce questions not unkindly. In fact, he’s so matter of fact that it’s relieving.

Tony shrugs a shoulder. “S’alright.”

Tsking, Bruce shakes his head and leans in to take Tony’s pulse.

“I’m alright,” Tony mutters petulantly. “It’s just- what the fuck? A tiny man just- up and decides to crawl into me? _Not_ cool. _I’m_ cool. _My_ suit lets me fly and blast things apart. What does _this guy’s_ suit do? It just makes him fucking _small._ It’s so fucking _la—”_

Tony stops, choking a bit on his words. He backs up that thought. Backs it up _real_ hard and rolls it over and over and until he’s laughing with it, until he’s _wheezing_ and there are worried voices coming from all angles, but all Tony can think about is how fucking _stupid_ he’s been. How utterly fucking _stupid._

_“Pym,”_ Tony manages, strangled. “It’s fucking _Pym.”_

“What?” someone asks.

_“God,”_ Tony wheezes, “I can’t believe I was bested by fucking _Ant-Man.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's get the ball ROLLIN'
> 
> (tw recap: while looking over the footage for Ant-Man, Clint realizes that Scott is probably the one who caused Tony's heart attack. Tony freaks out for obvious reasons and it also touches upon the wormhole-induced panic attacks from IM3. Nat immediately helps him through the panic attack. Bruce and Thor have been out getting more food since Steve hasn't eaten)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys. Been busy and not in the best mindset. Also, this was gonna be longer but then I decided you guys deserved a chapter instead of having to wait even more, so here you go. Hopefully, with part of the next chapter written it should be up fairly quick.
> 
> Also, warning for some disordered eating in this chapter. Only a couple paragraphs but if you need to, skip from "Barton slumps" to "instead, he takes careful little sips." Quick summary at end of chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for all the love and support. I adore you guys very much and it makes my day so much better when I read your comments.

Letting out a long breath still quivering from overwhelmed laughter, Tony presses his hands hard into his eyes. Presses them until stars and whirling shapes spark across the darkness behind his eyelids. A fine tremble runs through him, fingers to toes. It feels like his brain is rattling in his skull. _“Jesus,”_ he mutters, _“Stai scherzando.”_

_“Ant-Man?”_ Barton wonders aloud, voice incredulous. “Isn’t- isn’t that just a myth?”

“No,” Romanov says slow, “he’s not.” She pauses, and when Tony opens his eyes there’s a complicated look on her face. Her eyes are distant and her hands have fallen back into her lap, one just brushing her hip in absent memory. “Some things are more than just a ghost story. They’re more than just rumours to spark terror in the enemy. Russia had them. America has them, too.”

“Oh,” Barton says dumbly. Then, _“Oh._ Like—”

“Yes,” Romanov says and leaves it at that.

“What do you mean?” Rogers cuts in. He’s frowning like he’s peeved that he doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Like he’s missing the punchline for the joke everyone else is howling at. He really seems to have that look on his face a lot. That, and an awful weariness like he doesn’t ever hope to catch up with everything he’s missed. Like he’s lost at sea and isn’t sure he’ll find his way back to land, forced to contemplate his life and the roiling grey of the bottomless seas. Like his only options are to wither and rot under the baking sun or sink down beneath the chill of salt and water to rot down there, out of sight and out of mind.

Tony supposes he can’t blame the man. He’s not exactly sure how long Rogers has been off the ice, but it can’t have been for long. There’s not a lot left of the world he knows, and what _is_ left must be twisted beyond recognition, or an awful, shadowy parody of his memories. Tony can’t even imagine going to sleep and waking up one day to a different world. Can’t imagine what it would be like for the people he loves to vanish within the blink of an eye, like dust on the wind. Or to knock on their door and find them years older, grey sweeping their hair, wrinkles crinkling their skin with all the memories they didn’t get to live through together.

It’s a terrifying thought. And suddenly— suddenly Tony can forgive Rogers for being a bit of a dick when they first met.

Well, partially forgive. Rogers _was_ a dick, after all.

“He was- uh, I guess he was an operative,” Barton starts. “During the Cold War. Things were really amped up between the Soviet Union and the US. I’ve heard stories about how Ant-Man foiled all their devious plans, including stopping a missile attack on the United States. He was called Ant-Man because he could shrink down to the size of- well. An ant. And he had the power and speed of a bullet. Weird, but badass.” Absentmindedly, Barton leans on the foot of the bed, arms crosses as he taps his fingers. “I first heard about him when I started at SHIELD. It was something the older agents would tease us with or toss between each other like an inside joke. But I always thought it was just our version of the Winter Soldier.”

“The Winter Soldier?” Steve echoes.

Barton shrugs. “Yeah. Russia’s own operative. Except he was more into killing. He did a lot of work during the Cold War, too. Supposed to be a ghost story.”

“I take it he is also more than just legend?” Thor asks, solemn yet curious.

“Yes, and he is still active,” Romanov says, expression a bit more alert, a bit more present. “I encountered him on a mission. Nearly took me out.”

There’s complete and awkward silence for a moment. They all know how dangerous Romanov is, and the thought of someone nearly killing her…

“Well, let’s hope this Winter Soldier isn’t in on this fuckery, too,” Tony tries to joke, but his tone falls flat. “I don’t think he’s someone we wanna run into.”

“This Ant-Man, though, do you think this is the same man from today?” Rogers guesses.

“I can’t imagine him letting anyone else near his tech,” Tony mutters tiredly. “Unless it was his daughter- which. I guess it could be but, on the video footage it looks like a man. Though I wouldn’t put it past Hope to be that badass. Of course, I guess we could be dealing with stolen tech. Except I find it hard to believe that Pym would ever be that careless, especially considering how dangerous it is. _And_ I highly doubt someone could come up with it on their own. Pym’s a genius, but a bit of a nutball. I _seriously_ doubt anyone else would be able to get the same results he did. At least, not successfully.”

“Pym?” Bruce echoes. “There’s only one person I can think of with that name.”

Tony nods. “Yeah. You’re probably thinking of the same person.”

“You know the man responsible?” Thor steps closer, arms still full of takeout bags. “Is he an enemy of yours?”

“Eh.” Tony shrugs a shoulder, slumping back into his chair. “Not exactly? Hank Pym’s actually pretty cool. Brilliant, even. Though I’d argue that before she died, his wife was cooler _and_ more of a genius. I’ve only met him a couple of times. He hated my dad. Don’t blame him for that, though.” He heaves a sigh. “Or, at least, I _thought_ he was cool. But maybe he hates Howard enough to hate me, too. I haven’t exactly ever been the paragon of virtue.”

“How do you know that Ant-Man is this Hank Pym?” Rogers levels Tony with a considering look. “I don’t want to be going after the wrong man.”

“Pym worked with my dad in SHIELD years and years ago. Back during the Cold War. They weren’t ever really friends, but they collaborated on a few projects.” Grimacing, Tony continues, “There were…creative differences. Dad wanted to use the Ant-Man suit for more missions, wanted _other_ people to use the Ant-Man suit. Pym didn’t trust anyone else with it and eventually quit SHIELD, taking the suit with him. My dad complained about him occasionally, since Pym has his own technologies company. Said that if Pym was too much of a coward to use it himself for the good of our country then he should at least let my dad figure out other uses for the Pym particle. There’s a lot of potential in it. A lot of _good_ that can be done.” Tony trails off, closes his eyes, hand spasming.

“I, for one, am very glad that Pym got out of it when he could. I don’t want to think about what my dad could have done with Pym’s tech, what- what _other_ people could do.” Tony does his best to breathe through the panic of _Obie Obie Obie_. “Pym was right to leave. He did a lot of good, he’s _still_ doing a lot of good. Pym Technologies doesn’t have a lot of crossover with Stark Industry, but they’re one of the only companies I actually see as a proper rival.”

“If he’s a good man, then why is he trying to steal the Tesseract? Or the scepter?” Rogers frowns, tapping a finger in thought.

Tony shrugs. “Pym’s a good guy, but he’s kind of an asshole. He’s ridiculously stubborn and, as you can probably guess, doesn’t have a problem with fucking up other people’s plans if he thinks it’s for the greater good. I don’t him well, but I _do_ know that.” Frowning, Tony continues, “He could take the Tesseract and the scepter for any number of reasons. Maybe he doesn’t want SHIELD having that kind of power.” He casts a pointed look at Rogers who goes a little stony. “Or maybe he wants the power source for himself. I don’t know.” He heaves a sigh, feeling even more drained than ever. It shows in the fine tremble of his hands, so he clenches them together and hopes no one notices.

“Then it wouldn’t be a leap to say that it _was_ him earlier today.” Romanov leans over the bed to grasp the tablet. With a few flicks of her fingers she’s got it running and projecting that still of the tiny man again. “Do we think he’s collaborating with other people, or if this whole operation was his?”

Waving a hand absently, Tony sighs. “I dunno. He’s not great with teamwork, but maybe if he was on the same page as someone else…He works with nanotechnology and human enhancements, so I don’t think it’d be a stretch to say he could come up with some sort of disguise like the one we saw today.” A rough laugh scrapes up his throat. “I can _definitely_ see him stealing my face so it looks like I’m stealing from _myself._ The ultimate _fuck you_.”

“If it _is_ Pym,” Bruce considers slowly, eyes trained sightlessly on the floor, “then how do we account for his knowledge? He knew _exactly_ when he hit us. _Exactly_ who to mimic. _Exactly_ who to go after. Even though he’s a genius, I don’t think there’s any way he could figure that out on his own. Not without inside knowledge.”

“You’re right,” Romanov agrees, abrupt. “We’re still looking at an inside job. Until now, Rogers’ existence has been highly classified. It still _is_ classified, but…well. Who knows after this fiasco?” She shoots a wry glance at Rogers who grimaces awkwardly. “So how did Pym know to impersonate him?”

“There are too many unknown factors,” Barton sighs tiredly. He rubs a hand over his face, shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced than ever. “ _God,_ this sucks.”

They’re all quiet for a moment, then Thor steps further into the room.

“In my experience,” the self-proclaimed god begins, “no battles are won without proper rest and sustenance.” He proffers the takeout bags with a crooked smile. “I suggest that if the Captain feels healed enough, then we vacate the vicinity and partake in both.”

Rogers nods encouragingly, looking far too eager to leave. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“A’right,” Tony immediately interjects, resisting the urge to slide out of his seat and onto the floor in a pile of exhausted muscle and bone. “I’m fuckin’ sick of this dump. Let’s roll out.”

-:-

It takes a little bit of persuasion and no less than four nurses and two doctors before they’re allowed to leave. By the end, Rogers is looking more caged than ever and Tony’s a bit worried that the 1940’s icon might either throw up or punch someone out of sheer panic. Possibly both. Maybe even jump out a window for good measure. Which wouldn’t _actually_ be good considering they’re on the sixth floor. Tony’s honestly not putting much past the guy at this point. He understands not wanting to be cooped up. Not wanting the hospital. Not wanting people poking and prodding and thinking they know what’s best for him.

Luckily, all the other Avengers seem to be on the same page because they keep close and back Rogers up. Arguing and standing strong and generally just acting like stubborn sons of bitches until finally the doctors relent and they’re free to leave. As soon as they leave the building Tony’s cell starts ringing and he doesn’t even need to look at it to know it’s a redacted number.

Tony ignores Fury’s call.

They ‘acquire’ a SHIELD van and Romanov slips into the driver’s seat before anyone can protest. Not that anyone does. They’re all pretty dead on their feet, even Thor. And Tony doesn’t want to be in the car when Thor drives for the first time. Doesn’t want to think about what a _disaster_ that would be.

Barton slumps into the passenger seat while everyone else crams into the back. Dutifully, Thor passes out bottles of water and their food: thick ham sandwiches stuffed full of lettuce and tomatoes with crinkly bags of potato chips. Tony curls into the cold window and nibbles at his own food, unable to really stomach the thought of even putting the food anywhere near his mouth. If he thinks about it too hard, if he focuses on the feel of the slimy meat in his mouth and the soft crunch of lettuce he seriously might throw up. He’s not really sure why. He hasn’t eaten in…forever. His stomach is cramping like it hasn’t since Afghanistan and he _knows_ he needs to eat but- it’s hard. He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to feel anymore lethargic than he already does because it seriously feels like his limbs are made of actual iron and _jesus_ it’s all he can do to keep his eyes open right now.

Holding his breath and taking tiny bites doesn’t really help much. Tony swallows what he can before passing it and the bag of chips off to Rogers who throws him an incredulous look. The man has already scarfed down two sandwiches and three bags of chips like he’s starving and— okay. Okay he probably is. Tony doesn’t know all that much about super soldiers, but he bets they have some seriously amped up metabolism.

“Are you sure?” Rogers asks cautiously, not quite taking the sandwich from him yet.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters distractedly, gaze skittering towards the window. “Don’t like ham.” Which is partially true. Tony’s just gotta be in the mood for it. And right now, he’s _definitely_ not in the mood.

“Alright…” Rogers takes the food from him, fingertips just barely brushing, skin hot against Tony’s chilled hand. When he eats, it’s more polite than before, slower. The super soldier side eyes him as he takes large, measured bites. There’s a scrap of lettuce stuck to his cheek, a smudge of mayo on his upper lip. Tony pretends not to notice.

Instead, he takes careful little sips out of his water bottle and watches the city pass them by. It’s torn apart, a grotesque parody of what it once was, tumbled walls hulking against the straight, clean edges of skyscrapers rising high into the sky. Rubble still smokes in places and smatterings of traumatized survivors and first responders crawl through the city.

It could have been worse.

But it’s still bad.

Fragile plastic crackles beneath Tony’s fingertips, loud in the quiet of the van. Bruce jerks a little from the other side. He’s dozed off against the window, sandwich mostly demolished, what’s left of it dangerously close to falling from his limp fingers. Carefully, Thor reaches over and rescues the sandwich before it can tumble to the floor. Bruce flinches again, eyes fluttering to regard Thor. After a moment, Bruce relaxes, eyes closing, then he tugs on the hood of his sweatshirt and tucks his face into the fabric with a quiet sigh.

Glancing up at the front seat, Tony watches as Clint stares straight ahead without blinking. He thinks the archer might have fallen asleep with his eyes wide open.

Next to Tony, Rogers has begun to nod off. It’s hard not to smile when the super soldier’s chin dips towards his chest, only to jerk up gain when they hit a pothole or debris.

It’s a long and windy route back to the Tower. They must avoid ravaged roads and grief-stricken people. Often, they’re forced to slow to a stop at barricaded roads and groups of uniformed men. Firefighters and policemen and soldiers direct them on their way when Romanov flashes her SHIELD badge. Any SHIELD agents on the field take one look at who’s behind the wheel and don’t even bother to wave her on, just letting her pass through without comment.

It’s a testament to her reputation, Tony thinks. If it was anyone else, there’d be more questions asked. Perhaps it should be worrying, especially considering they’ve got a God with the ability to shapeshift running about. _Especially_ because there are unknown people out there with tech that can help them impersonate anyone they want. Tony should be more concerned, but right now he’s just…too tired to give a shit.

At some point he must doze off because the van’s stopped moving again and Romanov’s peering at him from the rearview mirror saying, “Stark? Where’s the entrance to your garage?”

Blinking rapidly and feeling like his mouth is full of cotton, Tony takes a deep breath, coughs, glances out the window. The Tower looms above them. He can’t remember arriving. Can’t remember much of the ride beyond watching a firefighter cradle a crying child close, smoke winding up into the sky, a sandwich wrapper crinkling in Thor’s hand, a smear of mayonnaise on Roger’s upper lip.

It takes a few moments to orient himself, and then he’s directing Romanov through his private entrance. Tony checks in briefly with JARVIS and then security, then they’re parking in no time at all. They stumble out of van, Bruce and Clint yawning wide, Rogers a little vacant-eyed.

Tony’s amazed he can actually put one foot in front of the other, his legs are so shaky, his vision narrowing down to a worrying tunnel vision because he can only really concentrate on what’s directly in front of him.

They all pile into Tony’s private elevator and when JARVIS asks which floor they’d like to go to, Tony frowns.

“Are there- uh. Which floors are habitable, JARVIS? Ones without windows blown out or- uh, alien bodies, I guess. Actually. Scratch that. I know we’re setting up some housing and clinics for refugees on the lower floors. So. Which ones are available and the most secure?”

“I believe there is only one place that will suit your needs, sir.”

Pausing, Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Fights the urge to fidget. “Well. I guess the workshop it is, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically Tony has some complicated feelings about eating even though he needs it. He ends up giving Steve his sandwich.
> 
> can you say: BOTS BOTS BOTS BOTS BOTS


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depression and anxiety really, really suck and I’m so sorry that it affects my updating schedule. So. Thank you all for your patience and enthusiasm. I love you all very much and every comment makes my heart soar.

The thing about Tony’s private workshop is that very, _very_ few people have stepped foot in it. The bots and JARVIS don’t count because it’s their home and it’s a fucking given that Tony’s going to let them into his most sacred space. Pep, of course, has been in his workshop. Rhodey, too, _and_ Happy. Back before Tony could count the number of people he could trust on just three fingers, Obie was a regular visitor. Way back even before he took over the company, Jarvis and Ana were always a welcome presence while Howard just barged in as he pleased. His _mammina_ …she only visited a few times, but Tony likes to think it was less a disinterest in his work and more that she respected his space much more than his dad did.

The thing is, ever since Tony became an adult and then proved himself a genius worth billions, he’s made damn fucking sure that he always has a place to retreat to. A place where he can _think_ without all the clamor of the outside world. A place where he can relax and laugh and not have to fucking worry about everything he says or does.

His workshop is his haven. His safe place. It’s where the ideas come to life and his hands work their magic and it’s so simple to forget everything else in the world exists when he’s got some coding before his eye and a wrench in his hand. Rhodey understands because he’s the same way, though he’s not quite as…manic in his work ethic. Pep gets it as much as she can, but there are more nights when she tries to lure him away from his workshop than not.

Here, he’s loved unconditionally by his bots and JARVIS can look out for him in a way no one else can.

The other thing is, is that his workshop (both the one in the Tower and the one in Malibu) is one of the most secure places in the world.

It has to be, really. He’s got designs and tech that, in the wrong hands, could upend the fucking world. Also, Tony’s a fucking _superhero._ He’s got enemies and he’s got to stay safe. So yes, the workshop is not only a safe place for his mental and emotional health, it’s also _physically_ a safe place _._ Much less short of some _serious_ artillery or a missile shot point blank— really, you could drop a bomb on it and it wouldn’t crack open.

So it’s kind of the only place the Avengers can hide in right now. At least until the Tower is fixed up a bit, which JARVIS is already arranging, but until then…Tony’s got to let these near-strangers in.

Frankly, it’s terrifying. Yeah, he desperately wants to trust them, yeah he thinks he _has_ to trust them, but it’s still…It’s still so easy to remember the _click_ and release, the suction of air and his wildly thrumming heart as Obie lifted the weight of the reactor from his chest. It’s so easy to remember the look on Obie’s face as he said, _“But, you see, it was just fate that you survived,”_ and, _“You had one last golden egg to give.”_

When they step into the workshop, Tony fights a shudder as well as the urge to vomit. Yet again. _God,_ he just wants to sleep.

The bots immediately corral around them. Beeping and whining.

“What—” Tony hears Clint exclaim.

DUM-E butts his claw against Tony’s shoulder while Butterfingers shoves hers under Tony’s hand. U peers close, clearly trying to scan for any damage.

“Hey, hey,” Tony chuckles. “I’m home, I’m alright.” Obligingly, he pets Butterfingers’ claw and pats DUM-E on the side. “You guys okay?”

U nods enthusiastically, but when he rolls back it’s a little wobbly.

“You little liar,” Tony says, heart in his throat. He kneels and inspects U’s base. One of the wheels is loose and there’s a nasty looking scratch along his side. “What happened?”

“When informed that you were in danger, sir, the bots were very concerned,” JARVIS speaks up. “They got very…agitated. U injured himself before I could confirm your safety.”

Heat pricks in the back of Tony’s eyes. “Oh, you clumsy idiot,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against U’s side. “Come on, let’s get you back to your port and fixed up.”

Knees creaking, Tony levers himself to his feet and his vision goes white, all breath leaving him in a stuttering _whoosh._ Blindly, he flails out, steadying himself against cool metal. It takes a few moments to catch his breath, to make it through the sudden lightness of his head and the sparking of his vision. When he blinks the haze from his eyes, U stares up at him, chirping in concern.

“Stark?”

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Broad and warm.

“Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?”

Carefully, Tony shrugs the hand off his shoulder and flashes what’s probably too dull of a smile at Rogers. It feels uneven on his face. Crooked and uncertain. Rogers’ own expression is pulled tight. Crimped and awkward. “Just lost my footing for a second,” Tony reassures, but it sounds unconvincing to even his own ears.

Rogers’ brows furrow even further, lips pinching, but before he can even open his mouth Tony blazes right over him.

“Uh, welcome to my workshop,” Tony rushes awkwardly, trying to hide how heavily he’s leaning on DUM-E. “It’s one of the most secure places in the world, hence…why we’re here. This is where the magic happens, if you know what I mean.” He bites his lip, then points to each of the bots in turn. “I’ve got the kids here. DUM-E, Butterfingers and U. They’re the best and also the worst and I don’t deserve them. At all. They’re also too helpful, so if you value your own health and safety, if they offer you any food or drink _do not_ consume it, okay? They aren’t so good at knowing what can go in the human body. I’ve made that mistake more than once. Twice. A few times. Just- don’t do it.”

DUM-E whines beneath him.

“Don’t you start, you know what you’ve done,” Tony chides. “Maybe if I say it enough times, you’ll remember that motor oil doesn’t go in smoothies. I don’t wanna deal with any dead bodies on my hands because you forget we aren’t all machine parts and common sense, alright? I _will_ provide bail on murder charges, but I don’t wanna have to do that for you, okay? It would make it very awkward for daddy if he had to explain that to Pepper.”

DUM-E butts his head against Tony’s shoulder and he sighs, heavy and long. “Pepper would not be pleased, DUM-E, and we always want to make her happy, right?”

The bots all chirp in agreement and Tony can’t help but grin. “Good boys. And girl.” He bops Butterfingers on the metaphorical nose.

When he glances back at his guests there’s an array of emotions crossing their faces, namely a combination of amusement and bewilderment. For a second Tony feels even more awkward than he has since that time in college when Rhodey walked in on him getting it on in Rhodey’s bed with a couple of frat boys and a cheerleader. It takes considerable effort not to hunch his shoulders and hide from view. He’s just so used to acting how he wants here. So used to the only audience being his adorable kids who don’t judge him (too much, at least, and that’s definitely excluding JARVIS because he is the most judgey motherfucker Tony has ever known).

“Of course, you’ve met JARVIS. My AI. Artificial Intelligence for those of you who…don’t know. A computer. Kind of. He’s his own person but without an actual body. I’ve talked about him. He was in the elevator. He’s awesome,” Tony rambles on, feeling a bit wide-eyed and caught. “Say hello, JARVIS.”

“I am pleased to formally meet all of you,” JARVIS chimes in from the speakers above.

Rogers and Barton startle badly, eyes wide as they stare up at the ceiling.

“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, JARVIS,” Thor says, smiling slightly. “You are responsible for discovering our mysterious doppelgangers?”

“I can only take partial credit, sir.”

Thor’s smile widens, crooking like he’s catching on to what and who JARVIS is, and he likes what he hears. Like he understands JARVIS perfectly. “You have our eternal thanks. You have worked tirelessly to aid us.”

“It is fortunate that I cannot get tired, then,” JARVIS says, all cheeky and sly and _fuck_ does Tony love him. So much.

Brow raising, Thor grins. “Indeed?”

“However, that is not something you all can overcome. Might I suggest that you retrieve mattresses from the upper floors? A few furnished guest bedrooms have remained moderately untouched by the battle and so the mattresses should be free of glass and debris.”

“Oh,” Tony says dumbly, looking into his workshop where the only real places to sleep are one long couch and a folded up, hardly used cot shoved into a forgotten corner. “That’s. That’s a good idea. This is why I keep you around, JARVIS.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS says dryly. “I am here explicitly to make sure you keep healthy sleeping habits.”

“I mean, that’s part of it,” Tony mumbles thoughtlessly. Turning on his heel, he points back at the elevator. “Alrighty, then. Brief fieldtrip time! Chop chop people! Time’s a wastin’! Except for U! Let’s get you back to your port, buddy. After everyone gets settled I’ll work on you, okay?”

-:-

In the end, they manage to wrangle two mattresses down to the workshop.

The whole thing feels so surreal. Hunting for mattresses and blankets like it’s some sort of little kids’ sleepover. Maybe later tonight they’re going to braid each other’s hair and whisper secrets and giggle about crushes and stay up until 3am. At least, Tony _thinks_ that’s what sleepovers involve. He’s never been to one. At least, nothing PG-rated. Maybe adult, PG-rated sleepovers involve less giggling and more hard passing out for sixteen hours straight. Maybe some alcohol. Drunken confessions? Either, way, this is still a sleepover. It’s the principle of the thing.

Tony’s still trying to wrap his head around the image of Thor in a frilly pink nightdress and braided hair when they happen upon their first (mostly) intact bedroom complete with a usable bed.

Rogers and Bruce stick with Tony while the other three head on down the hall. They manage to shove the mattress of the bed and onto the floor. The amount of huffing and puffing they’re already doing isn’t encouraging, and neither is the size of the doorway compared to the size of the mattress. They’re lucky they have a second to rest the mattress on the ground and think. The debris has remained scattered around the window instead of blasting over near the entrance of the room, otherwise they’d be picking glass out of their backsides all night. They’ll have to be more careful further down the hall where every step is accompanied with an unpleasantly _crackle_ of splintered wood and ruptured glass.

They stand there and bicker and make a few attempts to shove it through the door. Eventually they’re reduced to Tony muttering about angles and measurements as Bruce shakes his head and refuting every single fucking thing he’s saying while Steve just stands there, frown steadily turning more thunderous.

But then Romanov and Thor coast by in the hall, mattress secured between them, like it’s fucking nothing. Thor tosses them a bright grin while Romanov smirks long and dirty.

“What?” she chirps. “Keep up boys, can’t get a mattress through a simple doorway?”

The way she looks at them strikes some chord deep within him. Maybe it’s the crooked angle of her lips or the shine of her eyes. How she’s so clearly exhausted and yet her expression is warm, familiar, teasing.

Tony catches her eye and thinks _fucking Natasha_ and then— then he’s gotta pause, take a breath, blink. Because he’s never thought of her as just _Natasha_ before. Yeah, she held his hand and pulled him out from a panic attack which is, okay- admittedly the most intimate he’s been with anyone outside of Rhodey and Pepper and Happy in _ever._

But watching as she coasts past, so light on her feet and judging words so at odds with the amused tilt to her lips, Romanov suddenly isn’t just some scarily competent super-secret spy ready to turn on him at a moment’s notice and go all _stabby stabby_. She’s…she’s Natasha. Natasha who held his hand and ran her fingers through his hair and is now grinning at him through the bedroom doorway like he’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen and she _loves_ it.

Before he can wrap his head around it or unknot his slow tongue to think up _some_ proper witty response, Barton trails past like a puppy. The archer bites his lip, muffling and obnoxious snicker even though he’s nearly dwarfed by the ridiculous number of blankets and pillows he’s carrying.

Affronted, Tony crosses his arms and scowls. “It’s too _big.”_ Barton looks far too…judging. _Physics.”_

Barton _does_ guffaw then. _“Physics,”_ he repeats incredulously. _“Sure._ That’s what _she said._ ”

And Tony is left gaping after them as Barton cackles down the hall.

There’s a second while Tony very unattractively flaps his jaw while the other two are dead silent, the air between them full of mortification and indignation in equal measure. Then Rogers very clearly says, _“Fuck this,”_ which has Tony and sputtering and wanting to cover his ears like some goddamn _virgin._ But before he can even move Rogers puts his back into it and _shoves_ the mattress out into the hall. Somehow, miraculously, despite Tony’s bluescreen of a mind when trying to figure how the movers got the mattress into the room in the _first place,_ it somehow squeezes through the doorframe and crashes into the opposite wall.

For one crazy, wonderful second Tony thinks they’ve done it. Steve did the impossible: he cursed _and_ he defied physics, properly giving the finger to both the American people and the entire fucking universe. Except- except the mattress _bounces_ like it weighs nothing and comes careening back like it’s determined to give Tony a _very_ inspired nose job, motivated by both rage and indignance. Like it’s trying to prove a point, trying to say _ha!_ You think you got the drop on me, huh? Moving a mattress isn’t as fucking simple as stopping an alien invasion!

Letting out a startled screech, Tony stumbles back into Bruce who trips. They fall in a tumble of limbs, Bruce elbowing Tony in the cheekbone while Tony manages to knee him in the gut. But not before Tony manages to glimpse Rogers’ eyes widening _right_ before the mattress corner smacks the guy right in the face.

Tony didn’t know Steve was capable of producing such a high-pitched noise.

Tony didn’t know _anyone_ was capable of producing such a high-pitched noise.

_“Oh my fucking god!”_ echoes down the hall.

_“Fuck you very much, Barton!”_ Tony squawks, voice muffled from where his face is shoved somewhere in Bruce’s smelly armpit. “We might have just killed a national icon!” It’s quite a struggle to detangle himself from Bruce who’s a groaning mess, muttering something about how Tony’s lucky the Hulk doesn’t really wanna come out right now and might actually be laughing at all of them. But when he _does_ manage to crawl away, Steve’s on that fucking magnificent ass of his, staring at the mattress with such a look of betrayal that Tony’s actually surprised the thing doesn’t apologize right then and there.

Steve’s nose is a bit crooked and turning a rather spectacular shade of purple.

_“Steve!”_ Tony screeches. “Newton’s third law! No, Newton’s _second_ law! _All_ the fucking laws! Did they teach you _nothing_ in the 40’s? An alien invasion doesn’t break your nose, but a _mattress_ fucking does?!” Hysterical tears gather hot in the corners of his eyes. _“Are you okay?”_ he whispers hoarsely and with feeling. A lot of feeling.

“Yeah,” Steve says dazedly. “Uh. I got the mattress through the door?” He turns his head to give Tony an unsure grin. It’s the purest thing Tony has ever had to look at with his own two sinful eyes. _Santo cazzo Madre di Cristo._ His _mammina_ would have snatched this boy up in an instant, patting him on the cheek like she was indulging a guileless child and then sitting him down to wait at the kitchen table while she made him hot cacao.

“Congratulations, Steve,” Bruce groans from somewhere behind Tony. “I’m not setting your nose.”

After composing himself instead of just existing as a quivering, cackling wreck, _and_ after piling the blankets and pillows in Tony’s arms, Barton snaps Steve’s nose back into place. At least he does it with a sympathetic wince even if it’s accompanied by a couple cheeky comments. Steve reassures them that it’ll heal quickly, just like the rest of his injuries, and then he’s taking one end of the mattress while Tony and Bruce heave at the other.

It’s slow going. They’re all tired and can’t help but quietly curse as they fumble their way around corners and nearly drop the damn thing about twenty times. Tony can’t say he’s ever tried moving a mattress before. It’s sounds more like a thing he pays other people to do for him. In fact, he _knows_ he’s paid other people to move mattresses for him. Except he never realized how _difficult_ it is. Mattresses are unwieldy, heavy and _fucking_ _hard to grip._ It’s a miracle they make it to the elevator. It might have been easier if they’d been able to slide it along its side, but Tony will never know because they’ve got to keep it off the ground to avoid the debris.

Thor and Romanov seem to have considerably fewer problems as they haul the second mattress ahead of them. They wait patiently as Bruce and Tony clumsily maneuver the mattress around tricky corners and down frankly _stupid_ stylistic half-steps. Barton trails after them all with an armload full of blankets and pillows, grinning tiredly from ear to ear as he trots along.

In the middle of mildly cursing both Steve _and_ Bruce, Tony realizes that ever since Steve said _fuck_ and then got his nose broken in the most- the most _ridiculous_ and _stupid_ way possible- he’s just- Steve. In his head. He’s Steve, and Tony’s just not. Calling him anything else but that.

“Cap,” Tony fumbles, and ends up nearly twisting an ankle because he didn’t anticipate a particular half-step into a communal area.

Steve raises a bemused and _very_ exhausted eyebrow while Bruce nudges Tony’s shoulder with his own.

After he finds his footing, Tony opens his mouth again and what ends up falling out is a very pointed, _“Steve.”_

“Maybe if you watched where you were going,” Steve begins.

“We’re fucking walking _backwards,”_ Tony whines.

Steve raises his other brow. So now. _Two_ fabulous raised brows. How does the guy make eyebrows look so good? There’s an indulgent twitch to Steve’s mouth and _no_. No. Tony is not going there he’s _not—_ And then silently, in the middle of ruined couches and shattered glass, Steve shuffles them around so he’s the one walking backwards instead of them.

“How chivalrous,” Tony can’t help but say, mouth running without him wanting it to. “How gentlemanly. I am absolutely swept off my feet, I am _swooning—”_

“You want to trade again?” Steve’s grin is far too…bright. Teasing. Kinda pointed and smug. Ugh, Tony hates it.

“Tony, just let the guy be nice,” Bruce mutters, huffing as they struggle their way across the open space. “Thank you, Steve.”

Tony thinks, maybe, he’s occasionally looked at the super soldier and thought _Steve_ in the last few hours. Maybe when the man looked so exhausted and frantic when he first woke up in the hospital room. Or maybe when Tony realized just how lost the guy looked, sitting there, listening to them talk about security cameras and the Cold War and secret agents he’s never had any chance to hear about before. Certainly, before then, Steve was nothing but _Rogers._ Nothing but that glorified dreamy nightmare of Tony’s childhood. The expectation, the admiration, the _resentment_ and that awful fucking _hope_ choked bitter and unpleasant in his throat when they were on that Helicarrier together. Steve was nothing but Rogers Cap _Captain America._

But now…

It’s really the quirk of the guy’s lips that gets him when they’re hauling that fucking stupid mattress through the halls. The glimmer in his eyes as Tony slips on a piece of drywall and lets loose a curse that would have made even his _mammina_ blush in mortification. The way the three of them banter like old friends as they try to make their way back to the elevator without dropping the fucking thing.

And okay, maybe it’s the exhaustion talking. Maybe Tony’s delirious and when he gets fifty straight hours of sleep, he’ll wake up with his head screwed on right and Steve and Natasha both will just be…Rogers and Romanov. Two mystifying, tenacious entities who only cause him trouble and pain.

And maybe this is the exhaustion talking, too, but Tony hopes that won’t happen.

A superhero can’t really remain a superhero when they’re tiredly hauling mattresses through your house like you’re moving into some weird frathouse, okay?

They make it back down to the lab without much incident. No one drops anything despite their trembling muscles and sluggish gait. Natasha and Thor have already settled their mattress over next to the couch by the time Tony, Bruce and Steve squeeze out of the elevator. Barton’s already nodding off, even though he’s perched on the arm of the couch, blankets and pillows still wrapped around his shoulders and clutched between his arms.

“Think this will be enough?” Bruce asks, tension lining his voice. Tony isn’t sure if it’s from the prospect of sleeping next to someone or if it’s the thought of having to haul another fucking mattress down here. Either way, Tony doesn’t like it, but before he can open his mouth Natasha- _Romanov—_ answers.

“Clint and I have got the couch, so we’re set there.”

Barton flinches, more startled at the sound of his name than anything else, head jerkin up from where his chin was brushing his collarbone. “Wha—?”

“Come on,” Natasha says quietly, indulgence sneaking into her expression. We need to put you to bed, buddy.” She wraps a careful arm around his shoulders and guides Clint back so he’s sliding onto the seat of the couch, legs dangling over the end.

“Nat, no,” Clint whines.

But his friend? Partner? Girlfriend? Tony really needs to figure this out. They’ve got to be more than just coworkers. Anyways, Natasha shushes Barton and pulls a blanket up around his shoulders, tugging the rest of Barton’s burden from his arms. She then tosses a blanket and pillow at the mattress next to the couch and pointedly holds out the rest to them.

She raises a brow. “Well?”

Haltingly, Steve steps forward and obligingly takes a pillow and blanket. He steps back and glances dubiously at the mattresses. After an awkward silent second where he stares at them with furrowed brows, he glances around the room. There’s a little bit of…awe, maybe? Wonder? Tony’s not sure. Either way, Steve’s eyes alight upon the cot tucked against the wall and his shoulders immediately relax.

“I can take the cot,” Steve offers, perhaps a bit too hopefully.

Frowning, Tony shrugs. “Sure, whatever.”

Everyone else comes to a quick sleeping arrangement of Thor curling up on his own mattress while Tony and Bruce share the second. Thor sheepishly admits to spreading out while he sleeps which Tony isn’t too thrilled with because- well. He has a thing about being _touched_ when it’s not Pepper or Rhodey or Happy or the bots and just- Tony doesn’t. Want it. It’s got to be on his own terms. And Bruce looks super nervous about it, too, so Tony offers to share a mattress with Bruce since he can’t imagine the guy doing anything other than tucking himself tight into a ball. Or maybe he’s like a mummy and sleeps on his back, spine ramrod stiff. Or maybe he sleeps on his stomach, face burrowed in his pillow and- and. Wow. Tony is putting _way_ too much thought into this.

And then Tony glances over at his bots. They’re sequestered on the other side of the workshop where Tony told them they _had_ to rest and recharge. Or else. U looks so sad with his shoddy wheel and scraped side and Tony’s mouth just. Talks as it likes. As it tends to do when he’s super fucking.

Okay, that’s a lie. It tends to do that whenever it fucking pleases.

“I’m gonna be up for a bit, anyway,” Tony’s traitorous mouth says. “Got to fix U. Can’t leave him all hurt. He’ll be so whiny and pathetic in the morning. You really have no idea how they get when they’re needy.” Guilt eats away at his breath.

“You should sleep.”

Distracted, Tony looks over at Natasha. She’s spread out on the couch, feet up near Barton’s shoulder as she stretches out next to his legs. She frowns at Tony with- with a complicated expression. This is why Tony hates beign around other people when he’s tired. He can’t read them. Can’t decipher the tone of their words or the way they furrow their brows. He can’t tell if she’s angry or concerned or anything else.

Tony can’t help but copy the curious tilt of her brows, the crease of her mouth. He feels the expression pull at his face and it’s like wet paper taut over brittle stone. A rubber band stretched tight tight tight until you can see it slowly come apart, strained a bleached bone white.

“U needs to get fixed,” Tony repeats, feeling like a broken record.

Expression intense, Natasha leans forward and points a finger at him. “I have _no idea_ how you’re standing right now. You’re exhausted. You deserve rest. We _all_ do. You aren’t going to help your bot if you hurt yourself trying to fix him. _Then_ where will you be?” She pauses, clearly waiting for the words to sink in. “Wait until morning, Tony. Your bot will be waiting for you then.”

Tony tells himself he only lets her get away with it because he’s _pretty sure_ his skull is filled with cotton. Her words come to him from very far away and when he blinks, trying to think of some sort of reasonable response other than, _You can’t tell me what to do_ , he finds himself already sitting on a mattress. There’s a pillow being pushed into his as a pink blanket slips over his head, soft and warm.

“Come on, Tony,” Bruce says quietly. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Tony allows Bruce to push him into the delightfully high quality mattress, only grumbling a little bit. “You smell,” Tony mumbles, already pulling his blanket up to his chin.

There’s a sigh.

“We’re _all_ smelly, Tony.”

“Nuh-uh,” Tony manages, eyes already slipping closed. “I’ve got emergency axe-spray,” his traitorous mouth admits.

A quiet snort, an equally quiet reply.

But Tony doesn’t understand it, because his eyelids are leaden and his ears full of the rush of his heartbeat, the comforting sounds of his lab.

Tony falls asleep warm and safe for the first time in…

Well.

A very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow what should have been two sentences of action devolved into a kajillion words of these dorks bonding over fucking up carrying mattresses. They’re probably those kids who all went to grab some supplies from the empty classroom next door and came back traumatized and stubbornly attached at the hip. Also, THINGS happen next chapter!! Actual! Important! Plot! Points! Such excitement!
> 
> Thanks for everything!!


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